


Magna Arthur I

by jumphighlamb



Series: Magna Arthur [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Abuse, American Revolution, Angst, Canon Universe, Historical Hetalia, Hurt/Comfort, Ideology, Implied Sexual Content, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Theology, War, but sometimes it's expected, people die and people swear, sometimes it's surprising
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:41:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 29
Words: 166,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21786901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jumphighlamb/pseuds/jumphighlamb
Summary: Every living creature on Earth has their own backstory. Some may be more interesting than others. Some may be cruel to the individual in question, while other backstories provide them with easy, simple and peaceful lives before their debut into the world. But no matter what that backstory may be, it always shapes who that person will become later on in the future.Alfred F. Jones, born to personify what is now the United States of America, is no exception to this rule. He is a well-known revolutionary, though he had not always been that way. Of course, that is because revolutionaries are borne out of their own backstories, and a backstory he certainly has.Living in a world with violence and corruption and beauty and grace in every corner, Alfred’s worldview slowly forms and matures over the years, reshaping his ideals and values with every King, Queen and country he encounters.But the most important one to him by far was and always will be his very first love; Arthur Kirkland, personification of England and champion of charters.Canonverse usukus series spanning from 1765 to 1978, with an epilogue in '89.
Relationships: America/England (Hetalia)
Series: Magna Arthur [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1602445
Comments: 73
Kudos: 136





	1. The year was 1765

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Here is the beginning for my slowburn historical fic series focused on canonverse [kinda, I use a lot of headcanons] usukus. The way the words have turned out, I don’t think this is going to be a historical retelling of things, but more of how a relationship between two semi-immortal beings develops over many eras within the setting of many historical events I find beyond fascinating. My current goal is now from 1765 up to 1978 with a standalone chapter in 1989. I try to be as historically accurate as possible, but we all make mistakes, right? Nonetheless, please enjoy your stay here, and I hope you learn something new!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Behaviors of historical figures mentioned in this fic series are based off of actual primary source recounts from the servants/staff/subordinates of the deceased. As I believe the way people treat those lower than them on the social ladder reveals their true character, I've made my judgements based mostly from these documents. Some of these ‘takes’ are quite violent and therefore I have to put a massive trigger warning for things like domestic violence within this series;
> 
> so please take caution if you’re sensitive to violence of any kind!!
> 
> It is not my intention to offend due to my representation of any certain figures, I’m simply going off from historical recounts. For those interested in the history, I have sources if you wish to see them. Thanks for taking interest in my work and reading it too <3 !

Alfred stared at the rickety wooden chair beside him. He was expected to sit in it. The man of upmost power seated across from him gestured to it, and so he had no choice but to sit down slowly - _cautiously_ \- and obey the man before him. His arms tensed as they clung to the armrests, trying to offer his frail young body some kind of support. Any sense of support, illusion or real, would be greatly desired, seeing that he was all alone now. He was trapped in this tiny tight box of four walls, stuck with a lone predator and no real doors kind enough to open for him.

The small room itself was quite frightening. It was barely lit properly, only a few candles stood with working flames on the desk and table in the room, trying their best to deflect the harsh darkness from the cold winter night. No windows were open and all the curtains were closed. The very air felt stale and tight.

He could not bring himself to look at the man across from him in the eye. He would never even dare. Even the thought of it frightened him. He simply sat, shivering, mouth shut, with frantic eyes scattering everywhere but that figure before him and arms set straight by his side like two blocks of frail wood that were the only things that held him upright.

Maybe, if he stayed still enough, he could become a wooden boy, part of the chair itself, and disappear into nothingness, slipping away from here and into the night and back to his soft bed. At least then he could come back the next day with a clearer mind and a rested head. He closed his eyes in hopes that tears didn’t fall. Dear God, he felt far too tired to have this fear overcome him.

There was a sharp sting in Alfred’s mouth and he gasped softly, letting go of the harsh bite on his lip he hadn’t realized he’d been inflicting on himself. He licked the insides of his mouth tenderly, trying to soothe the feeling, but he ended up triggering a wave of stinging pain as he ran over his countless canker sores. He whimpered lightly, frustration building within himself. He had been getting those ulcers ever since he was dragged here from his homeland. Curse that stupid man for getting so anxious for his eternal presence after that stupid war. For keeping him under close watch like a nanny to a baby. Like a guard to a prisoner.

That very man he cursed still sat across from him, glowing with a dangerous aura and accusing energy. Alfred still couldn’t look him in the eyes, but he looked up past the desk that divided them to see the chair he sat on. It was luscious with red fabrics and golden embroidery. It was fit for a better man than the one currently on it, but Alfred would never dare vocalize any of those feelings. After all, Alfred could never stop talking when he started, and he knew that, so he never dared say anything about the man before him to anybody in the Lodge, good or bad.

However, there were a couple of things he had said recently that could be taken out of context. He wondered which one had become the house gossip of this week. He wondered which one the man had heard and misinterpreted this time, the words spiraling downwards into his sick mind, twisting itself into a false rumor of vile aggression towards his paranoid self.

Alfred took a big breath in. He desperately wanted Arthur there with him, but at the same time he kicked himself for ever thinking such a thing. Why would he dare inflict the consequences of his mistakes and misfortunes on the one he loved most? Especially when the older teen had nothing to do with this, and would have no idea what it was about. Even Alfred himself had no idea as to what it was about this time.

He let out his breath steadily, and felt a wave of pride for at least keeping his head on in this instance. He supposed it was about time to find out why he was here yet again.

“You summoned me here, your Majesty?”

King George the Third of Great Britain had a very good reputation. He was a good man, they said. He fought for his country, they said. Even the maids and mistresses said good things about him, despite Alfred and Arthur seeing straight through their faces and into their sad battered weary lying souls. The man was a beast and unfit to rule.

Arthur always said people stayed quiet about him because he was alive, but when he died, they would find closure in the uncovering of his scandal after scandal. _It always happens to people in power after time,_ he had said with a mocking smirk. Alfred nearly smiled at the thought, and he finally found enough courage to look up at the man with God-given rights to rule over him.

His face had a dark, looming look, illuminated only by the few candles in the room. He was looking straight into Alfred’s soul, and his eyes, oh dear, his eyes. They had the Devil in them. God, he was a mad man.

Alfred tried to be wooden again, but his King still saw him, and spoke to him in a booming voice. “What is this idle talk of you not wanting to be here?”

“Nay, Sir,” Alfred croaked out and cringed at how meek he suddenly sounded. So this was about his homesickness. He knew he should have kept his mouth shut about that, but he couldn’t help but speak longingly to the Lodge staff about all the endless forests and wealthy rivers back at home, and when he started talking, he couldn’t stop.

“You said you loathed the sight of England,” his Majesty said. By God, what conspiracies against him had he come up with? Alfred… Alfred _loved_ England. He _loved_ him. The man couldn’t be any more wrong…

“I didn’t say anything like that! I simply said I missed my old residence,” he said in truth.

“Then you declare my maids to bear false witness before me?”

Alfred gasped and hid behind his bare palms. _Oh God,_ he hoped the poor innocent maids didn’t get dragged into this because of him. “NO,” he cried. “No, I merely –”

The King stood up. He walked around his desk and lurched over Alfred, holding him down in his place by his shoulders. The poor boy yelped out as the larger man began to yell at him wordlessly. A hot buzz filled Alfred’s mind. Prickles of pure unadulterated fear struck his sides as he continued to whimper pathetically under his monarch’s grasp.

Alfred tried to let his mind wander, to think of another place, another space. Even that ugly red splotty stain on the table over there would do. Anything to get away from this horror.

Or, was it terror now? Arthur always told him it was terror in his English lessons. It was, it was, umm, terror in suspense, then horror afterwards. Yeah. Arthur was smart, he knew what he was talking about. Arthur was always safe too...

But Arthur wasn’t here.

He was just so homesick. He missed the land he called home. He missed his house. He missed playing in the fields with Matthew, who his own King had forgotten when bringing Alfred over to Arthur’s house. And he missed…

 _Oh God_ , he missed being able to breathe too. He missed having his throat free of his King’s strong arms. His King, who stood so tall above him with wild eyes, held him down into the chair and closed his arms around his neck, snapping Alfred back to reality.

He began choking, and Alfred tried to cry out but it all suddenly hurt too much. It felt so constricting. He was trapped. Time passed. He couldn’t do anything. The wood from the chair began to splinter into his skin.

He felt something crack, bend and move in his neck under the monarch’s hands. He trembled feeling frosted in fear. A human would be dead by now. His mind screamed out to _God, Arthur, somebody, anybody, please help me! Please help me!_

He begun to weakly kick his legs and squirm under the larger dominating man before a loud knock made the latter finally release him. He coughed and heaved ravenously and splattered onto the ground below as light suddenly filled the whole room from the corridor candlelight to the left of Alfred’s wooden chair.

A guard in a red suit waltzed in and turned to the King, completely unaffected by Alfred shivering on the floor. “Arthur wishes to see you, your Majesty.”

Alfred froze, then slowly sat upwards, holding onto his bruised neck tenderly. Waves of emotions hit him. Relief; England was here. He could hide behind him. He always knew what to say to their King. Dread; Arthur was here. The King could hurt him instead now.

Alfred couldn’t bear the thought.

“Send him in,” the King said in an aggravated voice, standing tall and walking back to his chair. It was as if the act of almost choking his precious property to death didn’t dare leave a scratch on his arrogant appearance at all. Alfred found it sickening to his stomach that the only people who ever saw didn’t care.

The guard nodded curtly, then walked out of the room. The personification of England replaced him a second later, storming in with absolute, fierce determination, an appearance that Alfred had only realized recently – from living in the Lodge these the past few months – was a façade he used to hide deeply buried feelings of fear and neuroticism. The door behind Arthur closed with a dramatic slam, and it was dark in the little bird-cage box room once more.

“With your utter respect, your Majesty, I testify against any accusations made against the boy who embodies the Thirteen Colonies,” Arthur said boldly as he walked up to the desk with purpose, methodically placed himself between the King and his quivering colonies.

Alfred cradled his neck in his hands as he slowly sat himself up on his chair again, watching England intently from behind. The older nation was clearly tense before his King, knowing full well the sitting man dwarfed him in all height, strength and power. King George simply stared at his ever-growing empire blankly, seemingly expectant of his sudden appearance and bored of his presence already.

It was humiliating knowing that to reality this mere man was but a babe compared to the centuries upon centuries both these immortal beings have lived, yet in appearance they were the ones who were still simple children in their teen years, and he the adult ruling the one and only British Empire. How could a man of such human youth and naivety strike such fear into the hearts of these personifications?

Arthur bit his lip before speaking again. “Whatever statement you have heard, I assure you, they are a fallacy,” he said as he lowered his head respectfully.

Alfred detected only just a hint of anxiety coming from his posture. But that usually meant an iceberg of nerves here hidden deep below his depths. He reached out to lock Arthur’s pinky finger with his own, trying to help him relax and bring him some comfort. Arthur took it gladly, using his other fingers to wrap around and hug Alfred’s hand, rubbing it soothingly.

The English nation must have looked no older than nineteen, and yet he still managed to present himself as a strong young man with an iron will, standing up to his very own monarch for Alfred every time, even when things got… tense.

Alfred tried to smile in return and be strong too, but all he could do was cry quietly behind him as his throat continued to burn. Alfred wondered how old he himself appeared, probably as a boy of about fifteen years, now with the addition of multiple bruises and a shattered heart.

The King glared at Arthur and bellowed out, “British America claimed he was unsettled here, showing a complete disregard to the compassion and protection we have provided him with.” The man flicked his arm away at Alfred’s direction before continuing. “We brought him here from our own grace after the instability of the Seven Years’ War and all he has done here is insult us. I will not let this young fool continue to make a mockery of us before our own staff. He must be punished accordingly.”

Arthur’s jaw clenched as Alfred’s silent crying turned into ghastly sobbing, his neck pulsing with pain for every measly sound he choked out. He then spoke slowly and clearly and with great apprehension, “I assure you he will be dealt with, as you wish. However, I recommend I be the one to address these grievances. The boy who embodies the Thirteen Colonies simply stated his desire to see the land he represents. It is all of natural feeling for our kind. If you want these thoughts truly eradicated from his mind, I fear conventional methods of punishment will simply not do. Only I – I fear – may do the job if you wish to guarantee your success, Sir.”

The King appeared nonplussed by his speech as he said, “what could you do that would provide better results than a _good_ beating?”

“I am a nation,” England said with a little too much haste in reply. “I will convince him of his duties much faster and with much greater convenience to yourself, Sir. I assure you.” He then turned back with a huff to help Alfred out of his chair.

Alfred had quieted down in the meantime, beginning to see stars in the corner of his vision from the lack of fresh air in his lungs. His whole body was shaking as if he were a frightened little fawn who had frozen at the sight of a bear. His throat began to feel clamped up and he struggled to hear whatever Arthur said to him next, or even if he had said anything at all. He was trapped in his own mind, which in itself began to feel fuzzy and buzzy as he unwillingly lolled his head back, sinking deeper and deeper into the chair.

The hand he had locked Arthur’s pinky with was grabbed with a firm grasp as he noticed something was pulling him up. He quickly panicked before realizing his other hand was being held as well. Arthur must have been helping him up. He felt a delicate hand on his tender neck before flinching in pain, the hand quickly disappearing from his touch.

He heard a few accusing shouts. Then some aggressive replies. His mind begun to refocus from the sense of pure panic growing within his gut, however his body still remained two paces behind.

“May I have permission to retire with Alfred now?” He managed to hear Arthur ask evenly. It sounded dangerous. Alfred’s heart raced at the provocative tone. His eyesight slowly improved from its former haze, showing Arthur’s sullen expression right next to him, and the King standing once more right in their faces.

Alfred’s heart began racing too fast, almost like it could give out and stop at any moment. Every inch of his body snapped alert again, and he felt full of fuel, ready to run. Run far away from the danger.

“What!” The King screamed, more of a statement - a dare - than a question. It sounded like one of those horrible commands those palace guards would bark at him. An infamous verbal tic he'd bellow the second any servant of the Lodge stepped out of line; “what! What?”

Arthur took a big breath in, preparing himself for the worst, and he gripped Alfred’s elbow with arms as strong as steel. His eyes flashed as he slowly tilted his head towards the only door in the room.

“May I have permission...” He begun before stopping to take in another breath, holding Alfred behind him, ready to push him to the door. “To retire with Alfred now?”

Something in the King snapped, and in a sudden strike he lashed out at Arthur, clawing at his eye like they were in a bear fight. England cried out and clasped onto his right eye socket, pulling one hand away to reveal blood.

Alfred screamed as he begged the King to _'_ _please just let them leave in peace'_. But the swelling around his neck grew to great, and it clogged his whole throat, cutting his voice out and leaving him breathless.

He may have been forced awake from fear and agonizing pain, but the lack of air and sleep had taken out most of his energy, and he was too weak and tired to cry again. He just couldn’t understand how it could get to this. King George never acted like this around his own children. But then, he had always made sure they fucked off to Kew before really knowing him.

“Yes…” The King interjected his racing thoughts with a monotonous tone, not making any eye contact, “you may.”

The monarch reached out and grabbed a handkerchief from his desk – one made of silken sweet golden cloth – and used it to start cleaning out the bloodied crevices in his hand. He idly dismissed them with the flick of the hand, still fixatedly focused on his clearing out the red on that _one particular spot_.

With their cue to go, Arthur tugged on Alfred just he begun to regain his breath. They then sped-walked to the door and bust it open with great haste. Savoring the sudden increase in night-time candlelight, they fled past the lazy guard who was startled awake by their entrance and frantically, hand-in-hand, made their way down the corridor.

As they turned the corner, they slowed down, walking through a different hall they knew was deserted during the night. It was here where Alfred finally got a good look of what that blasted King George did to the love of his life in the better lighting.

The sad and sorry Arthur struggled to keep up with the blood gushing out of his right eye. The pouring red sea was far too much for his hands to ever hold alone. He needed another sailor if he ever thought he could make it to shore.

Alfred stopped and let go of England’s hand. _Here_ , he thought as he dug his hand in his pocket and pulled out a little rag. Arthur smiled gently as he softly dabbed his face around where his eye once sat. He then crumpled up the fabric into a ball and pressed it into his head, letting Arthur take it and hold it down from under him.

“Thank you,” Arthur whispered gratefully.

Alfred left his hand on his check for a few moments afterwards, gazing into his lone emerald eye, somewhat basking in his words but also seeking some kind of way to reach out and help him feel better. He just felt so _sorry_ for Arthur. He could say nothing with his throat so closed, but his mind was free to do nothing but think and think, “ _I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry,_ ” and he just could not stop.

It took a few desperate moments of ogling before he realized he was staring for maybe a bit too long, and he quickly backed away, removing his hand from Arthur’s face. He couldn’t stop the feeling of a blush come along, however, so he turned to look down the empty hallway and gestured to the direction they were heading.

Arthur nodded and started walking again, leading the way back to their private hideaway quarters at the back of the Lodge. Alfred followed suit, however he lagged behind quite a bit as he wandered, trying to keep himself from thinking of the pain in his neck, but in turn, all he could do was reflect on his own stupid actions.

Did he raise too much suspicion in the other teen’s heart? He wondered and pondered, and hoped and prayed to God that he didn’t. They were personifications, tools. Merely property of the King. They weren’t supposed to have their own agency nor feelings, or if they did, they must leave them dead and buried.

He also knew that Arthur was his only source of love and comfort at this horrible Lodge, surrounded by superficial noblemen, quivering servants and the King himself. He knew how Arthur saw him, and his love was not that of a romantic sense, he was sure of it. If he knew Alfred’s true feelings, it would ruin everything they had together, maybe forever. Then they would both be alone and broken.

And so, it was here in Richmond Lodge where Alfred, clinging to his bruised neck and struggling to breathe after running with a clogged throat, made up his mind. Arthur finding out anything about his… _unnatural_ feelings for him would be far too much to bear, much greater than anything their King could ever inflict upon them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading <3
> 
> Source Notes:
> 
> [For information on Richmond Lodge](https://writeroyalty.com/kew-palace-where-george-iii-went-mad/)
> 
> [And a picture of what it looked like](https://www.rct.uk/collection/914711/richmond-lodge)
> 
> For the characterization of King George III:
> 
> [documentary about the Second Fleet to Australia, rather good. Shows a lot of stuff about his personality from servants' accounts](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NEC9oc1Fn2w)
> 
> [on how his disease later on affected him after it started getting properly documented](https://www.news.com.au/lifestyle/real-life/true-stories/mad-king-george-iii-was-he-really-insane-or-was-he-suffering-from-an-undiagnosed-disease/news-story/3f097917df3952416e7e8d0ed2f361d7)
> 
> [and how his doctors perceived him](https://www.karger.com/Article/Fulltext/479815)


	2. The year was 1765

Alfred held up the excess fabric over Arthur’s head as he watched the latter pull his eye bandage tighter. With a couple soft tugs and a grunt and a hiss, Arthur finished up on the final bits of his patchwork. Then taking Alfred’s hands and guiding them in a circular motion, he wrapped the cloth neatly around his head on an angle and pit the pin in, keeping it in place.

“There. All done,” he said as he smiled, patting the space on the bed beside him.

It had been a couple days since Arthur had lost his eye. He was still clearly trying to get used to it, but whenever Alfred would try to help him, he always made it out like it hadn’t affected him at all. Alfred sat down next to Arthur and leaned into his shoulder. The way he always dismissed his own pain never failed to make Alfred feel sick in the stomach.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered for what must have been the thirty-seventh time that day, or so Arthur had told him.

Despite the evidence of deep purple blemishes being visible around his neck, the physical harm done to Alfred’s body had healed over the past few days they’ve been locked in their own little bedroom. He could now talk and breathe with ease, but the mental scars still remained, particularly the guilt.

“It is quite alright, I assure you.” Arthur sounded like he was trying to be consoling, but he ended up just being dismissive. It was like he didn’t even care that Alfred had hurt him.

“No,” Alfred said as he sat up, determined. Then, with an exasperated sigh, he leaned back into the bed with a little thunk.

“It’s my fault,” he nearly cried. “I was the one who went off on a tangent about missing home, I –”

“Do not,” Arthur interrupted him sternly. “Do not _ever_ apologize for missing the land whence you came. It’s your essence, your history. Take pride in it. It’s one of the few things we have, as personifications.”

Alfred stayed silent, lying on the bed for a while, feeling winded by his statements. His essence; fields and forests and huts and farms. Women smiling and waving as they carry baskets of food to the markets to trade. Children laughing and running as they prance through the high grass. His history too; his brother, Matthew, helping him up as he climbed the tallest tree he could find. Etching remnants and fading memories of his mother and her soothing songs and soft touch to his face, singing both of her boys to sleep. He blinked, trying to fight back the tears as he thought more of his home, so far away across the Atlantic.

He heard Arthur’s words repeating in his mind again and again until… he stopped on one of the words and noticed something rather funny.

“Wait,” He said as he perked up again, grinning cheekily at Arthur. He wondered if this would piss him off. “Isn’t it ‘from whence’, not just ‘whence’?”

Arthur simply raised an eyebrow at him as he replied, “no, it is ‘whence’.”

“Daww, I’m pretty sure from all those Shakespeare books we’ve read together that it’s ‘from whence’!” He began to giggle, felling a little bubble of excitement brew within his chest. Stirring up Arthur always put him in a better mood.

“It is logically redundant, Alfred. ‘Whence’ means ‘from where’…” The pompous nation began what suspiciously sounded like a lecture, and Alfred giggled at him some more. But no way! There was no way he was getting sucked into one of those grammar lessons again!

“So, you’re calling Shakespeare wrong then?” He cried out in the peak of his delight, hoping it was a good enough steal to seal the deal and end their bickering. He knew very well how much Arthur idolized William. So, how would he dare rebut the playwright’s words?

He felt a little shove from the side as Arthur pushed him, trying with weak, futile attempts to conceal his flustered stuttering. It felt so good to hear Arthur’s real feelings for once, now he was unbound from polite society and arguing with Alfred, safe and sound in their little beige bedroom.

“No, what he wrote was art. It is different,” Arthur tried to explain. Alfred rolled his eyes and shoved him back playfully.

He looked up at the young empire and their eyes locked. His smile was sheepish, but so much more lively than any time Alfred had seen him on other lands. He was so beautiful; Alfred could never look away in time. It was like being back at England’s house had revived Arthur’s health to the fullest, given him untold energy and strength that could move mountains. He looked well enough to conquer the world, all because he was back home. The only thing that could take him down here was his own King.

Alfred frowned again, breaking eye contact. And just like that, their King had invaded his mind yet again. It was as if he were waves of doom and gloom, crashing onto Alfred every time he thought the tide was beginning to go out. Like no matter what he thought of, as long as he still slept here in Richmond Lodge, his dreams would always crumble into nightmares of that retched man in red.

“Is there something wrong?” Arthur asked suddenly, bringing him back into their little beige room. The room was dull and small, but it was safe and sound from the fiery red storm outside, with all their books, and their bed, and their music, their small chimney, and their little window that provided what he saw as the freshest air in the entire Lodge. It was where he and Arthur had been residing for the past few months while imprisoned in the building, unable to leave. This bedroom was Alfred’s safe little home away from home.

But, of course, nothing could beat his real home. That was a place his King knew nothing about. A place where his dear brother, Matthew, had been abandoned and left all alone. The King had somehow managed to forget him while snatching up Alfred, sending him to Europe with Arthur for his own ‘safety’ after the turbulence of the Seven Years’ War reached American shores.

“Did you hear him, our King?” Alfred said sadly, with a small voice. “He called me British America again. That’s not just me, that’s Canada too. I’m just the Thirteen Colonies.” His voice then broke as he thought of Matthew, his other half, and he fell into Arthur’s arms, his crutch, his crush.

Arthur hugged him tightly in response, keeping silent, simply listening as Alfred sobbed. It made Alfred feel all the more guilty, however. He missed dear Matthew so much, but he knew Arthur was missing him out there as well. Yet here he was, the one doing all the comforting.

“He doesn’t know us at all!” Alfred cried as he just let it all out.

Arthur hummed in agreement, brushing his hair with his fingers and rubbing his back, while Alfred leaned out to look at his eyepatch once more, his face solemn.

“We should get help,” he finally said after a moment of thought. “I want him to stop hurting us.”

Arthur sighed and pulled Alfred into another, tighter hug. “I very well concur you, but what are we to do? Who do we run to?” He paused for a moment, seemingly gathering his thoughts, yet his voice still came out hysterical, “Alfred, nobody here would believe us if we told them that _he_ was the one to rip my eye out! Who do we turn to as nations? The next time I perish, I will be reborn with new eyes and anybody who we have turned to will declare me a… well I suppose declaring me a witch would be maybe forty years too late, here on British land at least. But a man of miracles, nonetheless, and that still draws far too much attention to us and our kind.”

Alfred finally pulled out of the hug, and Arthur let him go. He was right, of course. There was nobody to tell, nobody to run to. They were personifications in a world of human rules, it was too dangerous.

“Then what can we do?” His voice sounded so fragile.

“Well… Think of Shakespeare then. I remember, he always wrote his worries out on paper and preformed them out loud.” Arthur said softly as he reached out to hold Alfred’s hands. “Now,” he said earnestly, tenderly, with a handsome smile Alfred could have swooned over for all eternity, “how do you feel?”

“Well,” he began, shifting in his seat and taking Arthur’s hands slowly, “I feel like I’m drowning in my own sorrow.”

“And why is that?”

Alfred hesitated, “I don’t think I can say. I promised myself I would never… talk about my opinions of the King. It would get us into too much trouble, and, and I couldn’t bear that.”

“Just remember, I am the only one here,” Arthur squeezed his hands. “From now on, if you ever have any… disagreeable feelings about him, you need not bottle it all up. Come to me, in this room, and say whatever comes to mind.”

Alfred huffed. _That’s hypocritical, from you of all people, Mr lock-it-all-in,_ was the only response he could think of, and in all but a quick second, his nerves overcame him once more at Richmond Lodge. He bit on his lip, a gross habit. He already had too many ulcers trying to heal themselves, he didn’t need any more.

He sighed. Arthur was right, as he always was. He shouldn’t bottle it up. Maybe talking to him more about it would mean less oversharing with the Lodge maids and menservants, he thought as he smirked to himself. That would be one way to avoid getting upsetting rumors to reach up top. He took another deep breath as he looked around the room. He guessed it was about time to let it out.

“All right then,” Alfred said as he stood up, inspired. “I… hate him.”

He paused for a moment, looking back at Arthur, wondering how he would react. The nation was standing over their messy bed, doing up the messy sheets that were crunkled under them. He seemed completely unphased by what Alfred had said, but he was sure he was listening. He really was free to say whatever he wanted here. But now he had all this power, he couldn’t really think of anything to say. The thought made Alfred laugh a little.

“I really hate him,” he continued, exhaling another one of his big breaths. _God_ , it felt good to be able to breathe properly again. “I hate him. I hate him. I hate him!”

“Is there anything else you have to say about him?” Arthur questioned as he fluffed the pillows, sounding unimpressed, disappointed even.

Alfred paused for a moment. Then he started to hop around the room, gaining momentum as he proclaimed, “I detest him. I despise him. I abhor him,” feeling better with every new word he tried for every step he took.

He leaped up for his grand finale, doing a little star jump in the air as a big smile formed on his face, crying out happily in a sing-song voice, “I loathe him!”

Wow, his chest was feeling lighter already. He turned back to Arthur prosperously with his hands on his hips and added, “well, Arthur, look at that! Your method really worked. I feel better now, with all those different things I said about him.”

Arthur simply gave him an unconvinced look. “Those were all synonyms, dear Alfred. They all mean the same thing.”

“Ah!” Alfred danced around him, feeling ecstatic. “But not terror and horror, they’re not synoninmins.”

Arthur laughed at Alfred’s purposeful mispronunciation and he beamed.

“You taught me that,” he smirked before adding naughtily, “at least…”

Arthur feigned outrage with a mock gasp and whacked him with a pillow. “You unlicked cub!” He roared.

Alfred giggled as he grabbed another pillow and smacked his beloved England on the chest, back down onto the freshly made bed, careful to not press him down too high near his wounded head… or too low.

“If I’m an ‘unlicked cub’ then you are sly single peeper!” He declared, taking a light-hearted jab at Arthur’s makeshift eyepatch bandage.

“Ho, you dare thrust thine insults upon me? I shall challenge thy woeful soul to battle, then!”

Alfred couldn’t stop the little laughs that escaped him as Arthur grabbed the other pillow beside him and begun to whack him lightly until he leaped off.

“Hah hah! You shall never take me down, filthy baron. Nothing could ever crush the divine right of kings!” Alfred jeered as he repositioned himself to strike.

Arthur smiled brightly as he recognized what game Alfred was playing, and the boy felt his heart race at the sight, jumping and waiting in anticipation for his attack.

“This is the will of the people, King John! Obey and sign, or this will be the end of you,” he exclaimed as he leaped off of the bed with ease and charged him.

Alfred held out his pillow firmly in defense, but all it took was a swift manoeuvre from the British Empire and it fell straight on the floor. Arthur then lunged for him, talking him to the ground while promptly propping his pillow behind Alfred’s back mid-air. The two hit the floor with a soft thunk in a heap of breathless giggles.

“I will never…” Alfred said as he tried to squirm under Arthur’s weight while laughing lightly. “I will never adhere to your charter. Look around you, most of your fighters have given up the cause after only one measly year. You really think…” He squirmed again, “you could prevail?”

“Well,” Arthur said as he held Alfred down with a scandalous grin, “I would say…” He took his time speaking. “That I am prevailing right now. This could all end now, your Majesty. All it takes is a simple signing, and then the great seal, to give it a shiny look.” Oh, however handsome his smile was.

“All right! All right!” Alfred had finally caved in to Arthur’s commands, “you can have your stupid Magna Carta Libertarium, just get off me!”

Arthur let out a bellowing laugh as he moved off of Alfred. “It is pronounced ‘libertatum’. _Magna Carta Libertatum;_ the ‘Great Charter of Liberties’...” He sounded enchanted as he said it, remembering that war he always retold to Alfred with pride. It was so long ago now.

Alfred sat upright as he watched him. “Is that what it means? Great Charter?”

“Yes”

“Where all free men have the right to justice and a free trial,” Alfred recited what was always the climax of Arthur’s stories, where his smile was always the brightest and his wins were always the greatest.

“Yes,” he replied as he laid next to Alfred.

“All men, including the King, must abide by the law.”

Arthur turned to look at him cautiously, slowly. “Yes,” he said quietly. It was silent for a moment before he added, “you know, there was much more to it, originally. King John only agreed to sign it after, I think, a third of it was removed. My memory of it is blurry. But I know the original copy was destroyed.”

“What?” Alfred said as he sat up quickly. He felt dizzy, he really should stop getting up so quickly again and again. “How could you let that happen?”

Arthur shrugged, “I was not in charge of it and humans do strange things sometimes.”

“You shouldn’t have let it be destroyed! It’s a historical document,” Alfred was beside himself.

“Well,” Arthur chuckled as he shrugged again, “not anymore!”

“I… I can’t believe it. The original Magna Carta’s gone…” Alfred said it softly.

“Yes, but the ideas still remain. They are what truly matter,” Arthur sat up to be with him and put a hand on his shoulder, shaking it. Alfred smiled back at him.

“The Great Charter,” he said absentmindedly. “Charter kinda sounds like Arthur.”

“I suppose it does.”

Alfred reckoned Arthur was smart, “do you know what Arthur means too?”

“Some say the roots are Celtic, others say it is a Roman name,” Arthur smiled at the roof. “A bastard mix, huh? I guess I am well suited for it.”

Alfred frowned. “Oh no, I don’t think –”

“It means bear. Or bear hero, depending on who you ask.”

Alfred paused. A bear. He smiled. A big hero bear! Big great strong bears always protect their cubs. He huffed out a silent laugh. A great bear, Arthur was a great bear. His very own Magna Arthur.

“You’re like a big bear, huh?” He said as he humored his own thoughts, “fighting in wars for me against other nations. Against our King…”

Arthur sighed. It seemed by now he was sick of any mention of the King. “Let it be at rest, Alfred,” he said sternly. “We do not spend every second of our time here with him. In fact, he leaves us alone most of the time. The only times we are allowed to see him is in the other room, when we are called there, and that is not even that often. Just when we step out of line.”

“I know, I know. I just… miss Matthew a lot.” Oh God, he felt another tangent coming, “I want to see him again. And we can’t leave to see him because we’re not allowed to leave, and we can’t send him a letter because _he_ is too paranoid, and we can’t ask _him_ about Mattie because that would be insulting because it means we admit that he’s made a mistake and forgotten him and I –”

Arthur sighed again, loudly, exasperatedly. He put his hands in his head and groaned. It made Alfred stop dead in his tracks. He’d never seen Arthur react like that before.

“I know too,” he said finally, after lifting his head up again. His eyes were shiny. “I know too…” He looked around for a while, then back at Alfred. “We need to leave this room, don’t we?”

Alfred blinked at him. “I think that’s the first time I’ve heard you use a contraction in a decade.”

That earned a winded laugh from Arthur. “How about,” he started, looking at the window for a second. “How about, to feel better, tomorrow, we both take a stroll in the woods? We could do with some fresh air. God knows I need it.”

“There are woods here?” Alfred questioned.

“Yes, we are surrounded by them.”

“Oh, I must’eve missed ‘em,” he said sounding far away in his thoughts. They did arrive at the Lodge during the dark, and they haven’t left since. For the past three months they had been locked in the same walls. It was enough to drive a man crazy. He missed nature. He missed open borders. He missed the horizon during the sunrise. He missed the feeling of the wind on his skin, of soil around his feet. Hell, even the color green, he missed it. It was nowhere to be seen in this massive prison.

Alfred nodded at Arthur and grinned; it was a great idea! He reached out his hand to seal the deal, and Arthur took it and let him shake it with his own bemused smile.

“Yeah… yeah that sounds great!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yay, here is where the namesake of the fanfic comes from ;)
> 
> its interesting writing a whole chapter with only two characters of the same sex, using names and pronouns gets really confusing...
> 
>   
> Some cool reading on the Magna Carter <3
> 
> <https://www.bl.uk/magna-carta/articles/magna-carta-an-introduction>
> 
> and my favorite naming website:
> 
> <https://www.behindthename.com/name/arthur>
> 
> A short mid/late 1700's slang dictionary:
> 
> <https://www.geriwalton.com/slang-euphemisms-and-terms-letter-s-si-sp/>


	3. The year was 1765

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter includes sexual references

The next day, Alfred woke an hour before dawn. He felt jittery, and buzzy, and it was a feeling he just couldn’t contain a moment any longer. He slid out of Arthur’s grasp, careful not to wake him, and out of the bed, tucking him in after standing.

After lighting a candlestick, he walked right up to the small enclosed window and looked out the glass. He noticed nothing but a pitch-black sky with no stars. _Mhh... t_ _here are lots of dark clouds out today,_ he thought before sneezing relentlessly from all the dust. Whoops, he had forgotten about cleaning it after Arthur told him to.

He turned back to the bed, where Arthur started stirring, and cursed himself inwardly. He hadn’t meant to wake him up. Oh well, what’s done is done, Lady Macbeth. He looked down at his hands. There were no damned spots on them. He chuckled to himself, he didn’t need any more guilt anyway.

“Do you think its gonna rain?” He said as he walked up to Arthur, who now had his eyes open and a soft smile on his face.

He sat up, propping his head on his arm and revealing his bare chest under the falling fabric. Alfred forced himself to look away. “Oh, dear no. I can always tell when it will rain.”

“Good,” Alfred replied quickly, grabbing a shirt and chucking it at him. “Do you think we need to fix your eye bandage before we go?”

“No, I think it should be tight enough,” Arthur said as he got out of bed and buttoned his shirt on. “Would you like to go now? It is a great time to feel the mist in the air, and the servants will simply think we chose to miss our group breakfast with them again so we could heal better.”

Alfred nodded, “yeah,” as he fixed up his own clothes. How convenient things were sometimes. God was truly smiling down on them for once. “The sooner we’re out of here, the better.”

The two didn’t need to pack much, just themselves with the clothes they wore, and Arthur’s violin case strapped around his body. They walked up to the window, once prepared, and examined it together. It was just big enough for them to squeeze out of. Arthur ran his finger along the base and an accumulation of dust gathered on it. He looked back at him with an amused yet accusing eye.

“Right,” he murmured before perking his tone up. “Off we hop!”

He pulled the hatch up and opened the window, giving them a better view of down below. They faced the backside of the Lodge, three stories high, and were surrounded by a wall, like a concrete fence, slightly higher than the average door. It was difficult to see, with the dark navy tinge of the world and no moonlight, but the trees were absolutely massive, some spanning out over twice the height of the Lodge, and one of them overlapped the wall and brushed against the building.

Alfred’s face brightened up. She was perfect, and her arms looked thick and sturdy enough. All it took to reach her was some balancing acts across the house exterior on them overhanging window seal thingies.

“Ya ready for some tree climbing?” He excitedly beamed. The jitters in his body were multiplying by the second, and the good kind too. He felt like he could just jump out the window and he would fly. He also felt Arthur wouldn’t appreciate him getting a few broken bones, though.

Arthur smiled as he started climbing out the window, careful not to scratch his violin case. Once he was out, supporting himself on the small overhanging platform, he turned back to look at Alfred still standing in the room with a mischievous smirk.

“Oh please, I was born ready,” he chimed before leaning back out of the window, but just a bit too far into the distant dark navy grey below. He yelped and frantically pulled back, hugging the wall before letting out a long groan.

“Oh, why do the servants’ quarters always have to be the top floor,” he grumbled as he started shuffling across to the tree.

Alfred giggled in response as he climbed out the window too, albeit much slower due to his candle-holding. Oh, and why, of course, his supposed ‘inexperience’ compared to the almighty much-older-than-him empire before him. He couldn’t help rolling his eyes.

“I thought you were born ready?” He said with a snicker.

“I am!” Arthur cried out, reaching the tree already. “See? I am faster than Thor and all his lightning strikes.” Then he turned his nose up playfully, “while you are but his thunder.”

Alfred snorted as he walked against the Lodge wall, holding his candle after him so his hand could reach out and grab the tree’s arm. Arthur had already begun to climb down her with such delicacy and ease. It was so enchanting, like he were an acrobat doing a performance just for Alfred. Or a skilled privateer who had literal centuries of training climbing down hundreds and thousands of different crows’ nests during his many lifetimes.

He grabbed the tree branch with one hand and began to move across. He suddenly felt wobbly with nerves as he tried to reach the trunk which grew outside the wall fence. He tried moving quicker to reach her quicker before he slipped, which he managed to do at the loss of dropping his candle. It clinked then clunked down the tree trunk before landing at Arthur’s feet, who had already reached the ground down below and was trying to contain his loud uproarious laughter while watching him.

“Do you want us to get caught?” Alfred hissed, embarrassed, as he began climbing down.

“Oh, please, who is here? This area is out-of-bounds anyway,” He chuckled and picked up the candle, placing it in his pocket as Alfred jumped the down the remaining distance between them. “At least I contained myself. I feel, if you were in the same situation you would not have –”

“Excuse me?” Alfred interrupted, landing on the ground, “excuse me?”

“Come now,” his dear Magna Arthur ignored him with a dazzling one-eyed smile, “Let us walk up further so we may play this –” he held up his violin case as he spoke in a demeaning voice – “without your poor nerves frightening too much…” And with that, he begun to walk further into the dark misty woods with a skip in his step.

“Arthur!” Alfred cried as he followed after him. Sometimes the guy he fell for could be a real mean scrub.

It took a while for them to find the perfect spot, but the found it. The sun hadn’t risen yet, however slight cracks of light had started to make its way over the monstrously large rain clouds. A nice clear circular opening enclosed completely by a satisfying thickness of misty tall trees, far enough for them to even whoop and holler and only God and themselves would hear.

Arthur had his violin out of its case, and he was trying to play his favorite tunes without paying heed to it constantly reminding him of his right eye blindness. Alfred could see he was visibly bothered by it. Being unable to properly watch his right hand move and dance about to the rhythm as he was used to made him look disappointed and detached as he played, as Alfred noticed.

It was a shame; he was truly playing a beautiful piece. And Alfred could never stand seeing Arthur be sad for too long.

So up he leaped, and he started to dance around him, giggling as a new idea formulated in his head.

“I feel like a witch in the woods!” He peeped as he began to dance more eccentrically in front of Arthur.

“What are you doing?” He asked, sounding astounded, as he halted playing and put his hands on his hips.

“Dancing to your artwork, Artie,” Alfred replied, adding in some stupid sound effects as he continued.

“Stop!” Arthur tried not to laugh. “You will summon something with moves like that.”

He simply danced even harder to the silence of the woods in response.

“No, no. Stop. Stop. Stop. I’m trying to be serious! That piece was one of Queen Bess’ favorites, you will ruin my image of it forever,” Arthur cried as he let out a few chuckles.

“Well too bad.” Alfred said as he finally stopped, noting his deed had been done. “You were sad...”

Arthur looked at him intently for what seemed like forever upon hearing those words. Yet it was still him to be the one who finally broke eye contact. “So how… how is your neck doing? I see the bruising has gone down tremendously,” he mumbled.

“Oh, yeah,” Alfred snapped out of his mind-numbing trance. “I can’t feel it anymore.”

Arthur scrunched up his face, “what?”

“I mean, I mean…” he shook his head, “I can’t feel the pain anymore. I can still feel my neck, if that’s what you’re worried about.” _Well, at least that was true_ , he thought.

Arthur smiled softly as he placed his instrument back in its case on the ground, fidgeting with buttons as he sealed it shut. He then noticed a bulge from another pocket, and he reached in for it and took out a book.

“Ah, I had wondered where I had put this!” He rejoiced as he read the cover, breaking the thin wall of ice that had built up between them.

“What is it?” Alfred hummed as he moved in closer.

Arthur hummed as he looked up, “a book by John Locke. One of the guards gave it to me.”

“Really? What inspired him to give it to you?” Alfred had heard of the man, but knew not too much about him. All he could think is that he was an English philosopher with nice wavy hear, at least according to his portrait, and that Arthur loved philosophy.

“Money, of course,” Arthur replied blatantly.

“Oh.” Alfred paused. He hadn’t expected that. “Well then… What does he teach?”

“Mhh, what does he teach…” Arthur parroted as he sat down on the dirt, running his hands over the book. “He believed that all men were born free. No, the natural state of mankind was in freedom. Now make no mistake, he was not the first one to believe this, but his writings were… quite alright.”

He turned to look at Alfred as he sat cross-legged next to him. “Basically saying that monarchy is a specific social contract that societies chose to have, not something inherently natural within the human condition. I find it quite fascinating.”

“So… it undermines the divine right of kings,” Alfred started. He blinked. Who knew a simple mindset such as that could shred up an entire political argument that had been going strong for centuries?

Arthur nodded, “yes. Pretty much so. It is an interesting take. I will give it that.”

“You don’t believe it?” Alfred asked, unsure.

“Oh, I believe to some degree that free men are born free. But I,” he pointed to himself, “am a nation. I am not born free, and I have a duty to adhere to the traditions and government my people have chosen for themselves.”

Alfred hummed back, still unsure with himself.

“Besides,” Arthur wrapped his arm around the Thirteen Colonies’ shoulder. “Being a monarchy is not bad. There are good bosses, and bad bosses. They come and go. You find the bad ones are worth it for the good ones. There is nothing like shouting ‘for King and country’ into battle.”

Alfred smiled a sheepish grin at that last part, looking down at his legs in the dirt. “Are you saying you shout out for yourself?” He queried.

“No,” Arthur replied hastily. “For my people.”

“You personify your people.”

“Well, then. What is wrong with wanting something for myself, then?” He huffed, turning his nose up to the sky.

“Nothing! Nothing,” Alfred giggled lightly. “I guess I’m just trying to get ya back for the candle.”

They sat together in silence, watching and feeling the wind as it blew through the trees and the birds began to wake. Alfred watched his Magna Arthur as he closed his eye, taking in the scent of his land all around him. Everything was peaceful, and everything around him was a nice tinge of grey and green and it reminded him so much of Arthur. It was everything about Arthur, and it filled his senses all at once. He let himself relax to the feeling of absolute bliss and harmony. This was something he had not properly experienced in a long time.

But there was also a strange rustling in the distance they had not noticed before, snapping him back to reality.

“What is that, an animal?” Alfred asked as Arthur opened his eye.

“It must be. Nobody comes around here. Out-of-bounds, remember?” And with that, Arthur brushed it off.

Until they heard moaning. Very human moaning.

Alfred sunk back into the ground, feeling himself go as red as a tomato. “Oh my _God_ ,” he whispered, nearly in tears. He wanted to bury himself to get away from the embarrassment.

Arthur just blinked, unimpressed. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” He stood up. “Come on, we should go.”

“I don’t want to,” Alfred mouthed, barely audible.

“What, you want to stay here and listen to them, do you?” He muttered back, standing over him.

Alfred sighed, then quivered, then visibly shook as he heard another moan. He didn’t know if he wanted to die or just laugh it off from the shock.

“All right, all right,” he finally said, and he let Arthur help him stand. He looked in the direction that the noises were coming, and lo and behold, there was a man and a woman _in conversation_ , legs wrapped around each other and…

“Oh my God, ew!” Alfred cried and looked away as Arthur picked up the violin case and pushed him back in the direction of the Lodge, forcing him to move.

They started running back to the building, with ease as the sun had blessed them with the final crack of dawn, and a clearly visible path showed itself to them as they stepped over twigs and stones. They looked like two little children who got caught out seeing something naughty done at the markets. Alfred guessed, in the physical sense, they really were young children, and to be fair, they had caught something pretty naughty.

“Do you think they noticed us?” Alfred asked when the tree they climbed finally came into view.

“Yes, they did. I think they saw us,” Arthur said it almost certainly.

Alfred bit his lip. “I’m just gonna take it that you’re wrong about that one. I mean, we had no light source on us, and it's a pretty dark morning, especially with all the dark clouds."

He hesitated, then started walking to the tree instead, Arthur following suit. They were in the wrong by being there too. If they had noticed, it was not like they would even recognize them, or even then dob on them. Saying so would be admitting they were there in the out-of-bounds zone as well. Alfred leaned over and took a couple deep breaths. He seemed happy with that logic.

He looked up at Arthur, who was sneering at him.

“Oh my God!” Alfred couldn’t believe it. He was almost hysterical. “Who does that in the morning?”

“Many people.”

“Do… do you think they’re married?”

“No,” he said it immediately. “Well… Maybe he is.”

“What?!”

“It is either forbidden love or prostitution,” Arthur hummed as he pondered, rather interested in the situation. His amused and intrigued face made Alfred finally decide his own reaction to the situation; he would take it with humor.

“I guess I never outlived my Puritan values, then!” he whooped before he started to wheeze. “Do I look as red as I feel?”

Arthur didn’t answer him, instead he seemed to tense up at the mention of Puritanism, which shocked Alfred. He tilted his head up, noticing as it began to rain, contrary to Arthur's earlier predictions.

 _Hah_ , he thought dryly. So it turned out he could be wrong about some things, sometimes, at least...

“Come now,” Arthur said swiftly as they made their way quietly to the tree base. “We should hurry before it is too slippery.”

Alfred nodded, slightly ashamed. He didn’t mean to bring down the mood. He silently let Arthur help him up before him, and the climbed up the tree and onto the branch with ease. The bark was solid, and not easily tainted by the water, which was getting heavier by the second.

What was a challenge, however, was walking across the Lodge wall and back into the window. Alfred was first, with Arthur’s firm grip on him keeping him balanced, he was guided across the wall before he reached for the window himself and pulled himself in the room. Now safely on a much more secure platform, he reached out the window and grabbed Arthur, who was waiting for him, pulling him in with barely any strength needed.

They turned back to the window, closing it and locking it just before the rain begun to pore thick enough to remind Alfred of a waterfall. They were painting heavily, looking at each other, soaking wet.

“So…” Alfred hummed. “That was outside!”

Arthur heaved a couple more breaths before smiling back at him with that piercing green eye, seemingly in a better mood.

“Yes,” he said smoothly. “That was outside,” and then he mocked a frown and he flicked his fingers, water falling off them. “I think we are rather wet.”

“And cold,” Alfred added.

Arthur nodded. He looked at the fireplace, then back at Alfred. “Did you know that all the chimneys in the Lodge are waterproof?” He said as he raised an eyebrow expectantly.

Alfred clapped his hands together. “OH! Would you like a fire?”

He heard a laugh in response. “Yes, that would be quite alright. Then afterwards, if we still have time, we could even meet up for breakfast at the servants’ quarters.”

Alfred nearly squealed at the thought of eating some good food. He set up the fireplace, making sure there were cushions piled up in front of it, and it was lit well. It was a cute little fire, cosy and homely. Small and delicate. It suited their bedroom perfectly. With a final prod at the flames, he stood back, turning to Arthur with his eyes closed and hands on hips.

“Tada!” He shouted proudly and he heard Arthur laugh again. It was the greatest sound in the world.

He opened his eyes to see Arthur had removed his shirt, and replaced it with a new one. He was also holding another shirt, and he tossed it at Alfred.

“Hurry along now and change so you can join me,” he said happily as he sat and smuggled into the floor pillows. Alfred stood, watching him sit comfortably in the cloudy material, except these clouds inside were much nicer and kinder than the ones outside.

“With a speed like that, you will freeze to death.”

“Wait up!”

Alfred changed, then joined Arthur in the cuddling, finding that he enjoyed it a bit too much for the wrong reasons. But he managed to ignore that part of himself. For now, he was just going to focus on being with him – his best friend, his Empire, his dear Magna Arthur – in the soft orange glow that was emitted by their own warm little fire.

He closed his eyes and nearly drifted off for a quick morning nap before hearing Arthur’s gossipy tone, “I wonder if that couple are still out there in the rain…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahaha... these two are such teenage idiots
> 
> So it turns out, to my surprise, that servants usually used to live in the topmost floors of Regent and early Victorian buildings, and the Medieval times before that too. I guess I should have seen it coming, as there were no such things as elevators or lifts back in those days. Climbing all of those stairs would be for the lower classes, I suppose. It also explains when you see all the windows at the top of those sorts of buildings, you notice that they are always smaller. Apparently, servants don't deserve as nice or wide of a view that the upper classes in the lower floors had access to.


	4. The year was 1765

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heads up: direct references to blood and violence

The fire was an excellent start to a perfectly normal day. The pair had made their way to the servants' table, and were greeted by everybody they hadn’t seen in days who were delighted to see them. Albeit, many were visibly cautious and saddened at first, doing double takes and having second glances at Arthur’s eyepatch, and Alfred often caught the maids looking just below his face as he spoke every so often with great sorrow and sympathy in their expressions.

The maid who he had spoken to about his home took one look at his purple neck and nearly fainted. He felt sorry for the poor young girl, especially when he himself had almost forgotten it was there anyway.

Everybody else was lively, however, and chipper too, welcoming them both back and wishing them good health. Plates of food were placed before their seats in larger portions than what they were accustomed to, and it was evident the rest of the Lodge staff were striving to show some form of solidarity for them.

“Thank you, Mrs Porter,” Alfred said as she sneaked a small cup of chocolate beside his soup. She winked and ruffled his hair, walking back to her place and sitting along with the rest.

He smiled lightly as he took it and sipped a bit, enjoying the sweet deliciousness that it offered. He then quickly and quietly handed the cup under the table to Arthur, who sat beside him. He nudged the hand on his lap and placed the small cup in it, careful not to tip out any of the precious liquid, and he caught Arthur smiling back at his bowl of food in thanks. His own heart fluttered in response; sacrificing a part of that little treat was definitely worth it.

As the last of the servants and staff members sat, they placed small glasses of beer before every meal. Alfred picked his up with interest, looking in at the liquid, swishing it around and around in all its red-yellow glory. He was never really a big fan of beer, but he supposed it was cleaner than the water from any river around here.

“Now I know we have not champagne or other wines, but we have beer,” Mr Phillips declared at the head of the table, earning total silence as all listened to him. “That, I say, is good enough to toast to!”

Sound erupted yet again as cheers filled the table.

“To the health of our dear Sir Kirkland –” another cheer – “and to our sweetest new adoption to the family, whom we’ve had for an excellent three months now, our lovely little brother, Mr Jones. Let your health improve over the next few weeks, and let God be with ye.”

Everybody clapped, whooped and hollered as Alfred sat stiffly with a small smile and Arthur thanked them all for their cherished compassions. In an awkward effort to drown out the sound and confusion in his gut for taking offence, Alfred took a full swig of his drink. Arthur and the rest of the crowd followed suit in celebration.

 _Drinks of beer and chocolate for breakfast_ , he thought, trying to get Mr Phillips’ words out of his mind, _these people are weird_. He looked past his cup to see everybody at the table break off into multiple miniature conversations, chattering to each other all so happy and humble. The people of Richmond Lodge were always so lively and lovely. They were a nice home away from home.

Alfred placed his finished cup down on the table. He wondered how Matthew was going, all alone back at his real home. He looked up at the ceiling. His finger itched for the right to write to his brother...

The two had finished their meals and said their goodbyes, and to Alfred’s shock and a bit of guilt, he found himself feeling relief given they were returning to their sanctuary bedroom. Sometimes being at that table was too much for him. He loved the workers of Richmond Lodge, really, but that table was dangerous. He found himself oversharing too much, letting loose too much while he was there. And how could he forget that whenever he was called into that horrible interrogation room, it would always be while he was there at that very table?

At least in their bedroom, behind those beige walls, they were never bothered. It was never an option for any human to go in there. They just didn’t. It was a little pocket in the world build just for the two personifications to hide in, and nobody else. Or so they thought.

They reached view of the door to find it wide open. Arthur halted suddenly, holding a hand back behind him stopping Alfred in is tracks. They had closed it before leaving.

Alfred felt his own head start to spin. Was he drunk? He’d never been drunk before. How long did it take to get drunk on beer?

Arthur slowly made his way past the door, looking over the corner into the room with Alfred following right behind him. Scraps of paper, seemingly pages of a book, were scattered all over the floor like debris. The pillows were scattered and shredded too, along with ashes and charcoal spread across the room. It was a mess, as if a cannon ball had hit it and blown it all up.

Among the debris stood an enraged man in the middle of the room. A tall, husky, well built man they both become very well acquainted with over the past three months.

No one other than King George the Third.

Arthur was the one to step forward first. Alfred couldn’t tell if he shook from fear or anger. “You…” He started waveringly, dropping all proprieties in both posture and tone. His lack of royal protocol frightened Alfred.

“You can’t be in here!” He asserted as the King swiftly made his way over to Alfred, not paying any heed.

Alfred froze and the King towered over him in his wobbling vision. He felt him grab his arm and pull him into the room. Arthur may have latched onto him as he also felt tugging and yelling in the other direction.

“What have you infected him with?” He heard a bellowing voice come from somewhere. “What have you done to him?”

He shook under those familiar hands. He didn’t want to stop breathing again, he didn’t, he really didn’t. _Please_ , he thought as he sobbed, _not again_.

He heard the man scream something about being _unnatural_ , and his mind began to buzz. Unnatural. That’s what he was. Feeling those feelings for Arthur when he shouldn’t be. Having dreams he shouldn’t be having. Thoughts of kissing and hugging and touching, and laughing in meadows and making Arthur the happiest nation to ever live. They were all unnatural. He was supposed to lock them all up inside him. He promised himself that, but that buzzy spinny feeling in his head made him so dizzy that he couldn’t.

He couldn’t think right anymore. He felt sloppy. He also felt fearful. He felt like a pile of mush. Like if he dropped to the ground he would fall into a pile of spikes. He tried so hard to remain standing. His arms felt locked up as he felt something drag him about.

What had the King been doing? Did he find out about them going outside? Is that why he was there, because they broke the rules? Or did his paranoia get the best of him that he invaded their private room and found the book and read it and didn’t like what he saw? And then, did he just blame it all on Alfred? Had Arthur never touched a book such as that before the King met Alfred and he assumed it was all his doing?

Oh, God forbid, had he somehow caught on about his feelings for Arthur and _hated_ him for it?

What was it? What did they do? The book or their actions or the action of reading such a book or an action or, or did that couple out there in the rain dob on them or, umm, how did they even recognize them?

Alfred’s racing thoughts paused as he heard something strange. There must have been some screaming, or shouting at least. There was anger and there was begging in the air. Then a sudden crack and a thunk. He hoped Arthur wasn’t hurt.

Arthur…

Oh no. He was struggling to breathe again. The beige walls blurred into red, and it was all he saw for a few seconds. The pressure on his arms disappeared. He sunk to the ground. A door slammed.

Alfred blinked. The King was gone. He must have left.

He still felt buzzy, though, and he couldn’t see properly through his tears. He lolled around in the papers and ashes and pillows for a moment before noticing Arthur leaning up against the sharp corner of the bed.

He crawled over to him, twitching and shaking as he saw blood running down the bed edge.

“Hey,” he said hoarsely, desperately, trying to keep his own dizziness at bay.

Arthur didn’t move or speak, but he did look at him with his exhausted eye. He looked drained and sleepy and drowsy. His breaths were deep and heavy, and his chest visibly moved with each heave.

Alfred took his hand and held it, confused. Arthur latched onto it and held tight, like holding him meant his life depended on it. His eye turned rabid and desperate as he clung his hands to Alfred’s, his breaths getting deeper and more raspy.

Alfred tried to release a hand to hold his head and check for blood, but Arthur held his hands down firmly into his own, anxious to not let him go. His eye had a knowing, pained look in it as he tried to talk but couldn’t. His head simply lolled back as his grip grew weaker and weaker, and his eye grew more distant by the second. Blood started seeping past his back as it soaked into the clothes around his shoulders.

Reality suddenly hit Alfred. Arthur was _dying_.

“Wait,” he croaked. “Wait…” Alfred was the one begging now.

“Don’t,” he started to cry again, trying to tug at Arthur’s hands to let him go, to let him hold the blood in at the back of his head. “Don’t! Let me help you.” His voice was almost inaudible.

Arthur simply grew weaker as his body began to slide down, yet his hands still held onto Alfred’s with an iron grip.

“Let me help you!”

Arthur looked at him with fear shining in his eye before he finally closed it, as if accepting his fate and directing his last message to the sorry world in the form of a cry out to Alfred, a beg, a plea, to please not let him die alone.

“God! God please help us…” Alfred cried just before the last of his ragged ceased.

Alfred finally caved in and held his hands back, pressing them into his lips as he rocked gently over his body. His body stiffened, his mouth remained agape and his eyes rapidly moved, looking everywhere and at everything as his mind tried to take in and make some sense what had happened.

He was all alone now in the retched Lodge, left to rock over the lifeless body of the dear, dear young man he loved so much it hurt and mourned so much it burned. There really were damned spots on his hands now, and he felt no matter how hard he tried he could never rub the red out.

The Colonies cried out his name and sobbed, just letting it all out of his head in the form of sound and spending the rest of their perfectly miserable morning feeling useless and guilty and horrible about his incapacitation about his sorry stupid dizzy nonplussed state.

.

.

Arthur awoke suddenly, heaving up and vomiting over the bed in which he laid. It was much darker now, the candles becoming a greater source of light for inside than the natural light from the window.

Alfred let out a startled help and he jumped over the pile of ashes he had been working on, scattering them into the dust yet again.

“Oh my God!” he cried as he ran up to him, seating himself beside him on the opposite side of the bed with a panicked look in his eyes.

It had been hours since England had died. The younger boy didn’t know how he felt about it anymore, given he had so long to reflect on it all alone, but something in his gut mixed up and forced him to feel what he thought could be both worry or relief in his awakening.

Beside the bed was a big scrunched up ball of paper pages and a neat pile of re-fluffed pillows. Alfred had been tirelessly cleaning up while he was out. He knew that Arthur was going to resurrect, and he himself had seen him resurrect before in times of war, but he had never seen him die before.

He knew one thing for certain, however. These past few hours of cleaning up their room, trying so hard to scrub the invading red out of their original and once peaceful safe beige and picking up all the fine grains of ashes in the carpet like some Cinderella, had been the worst few hours of his entire life.

“What happened?” Arthur asked as he ripped off his eyepatch bandage, revealing a perfectly new second eye burning a bright mineral green as he looked at Alfred suspiciously. Alfred could see the pain in his eyes as centuries upon centuries of memories flooded back into his mind before him. “The last thing I remember is saying goodbye to Mrs Porter...”

He nearly began sobbing again in response. “ _He_ killed you! I had to…” He gargled and looked away, holding his hands to his head. “I had to pick up your body from over there –” he pointed to the base of the bed, which was stained with a tremendous dark red – “and drag you up into the bed.”

“Wait. Who killed me? Here?” He said, shocked.

“The fucking King! He was in here, Arthur, he was in here!”

He paused then tensed up. “He killed me? Did you see?”

Alfred bit his lip harshly. All the sore spots in his mouth burned. “No I… but he was in here when we got here, and I’m pretty sure he pushed you… I watched you die, Arthur.”

Arthur turned to Alfred with a broken look he had never seen before. He reached out to touch his cheek. “Oh my dear Alfred. I am so sorry,” he said with heart. He then looked around and stopped at the ball of pages. “Is that –?”

“John Locke? Yeah. He shredded it up, it was all over the ground when we got here. I’m sorry.”

“Its alright,” Arthur said soothingly. “It was just a book. Were you harmed?”

“At the time, yeah. Not anymore though.”

“Good.” He continued to eye off the shredded pages, almost defensively. “Are you sure he pushed me? We drunk beer, right? Maybe I tripped over the papers myself…”

“Does it matter?” Alfred interjected hysterically. “I want to go! Please, can we just… _go_. Can we run away, can we just run away? Arthur, please?” He begged frantically as he stood up. There was going to be no more sitting for now, he was sick of it. He just wanted to run. He wanted his homeland back. He wanted Matthew back. He wanted to the feeling of being safe with Arthur back.

The elder nation blinked rapidly. It was a few long moments of silence before he spoke again. “Espionage and escapism have always been France’s thing, not mine,” he said tonelessly.

“What? Have you never made any daring escapes before?” Alfred didn’t believe him.

“Yes I have, but with precise planning. This is too spontaneous,” he hissed, getting strangely wary.

Alfred’s hands moved to hold onto his shoulders, gripping them tightly as he shook and hugged himself. “I don’t want to spend another day here Arthur, please,” he whimpered quietly.

Arthur stared at him for a good while, looking from one eye to the other, his breath heaving from the stress. His eyes turned glassy before he looked away, blinking a few times at the ground.

“This is high treason,” he finally said with a cracked voice.

“I’m pretty sure you’ve already committed high treason by telling our King to fuck off out of our room,” Alfred shook his head slowly. Arthur huffed, almost disbelievingly.

“That is different,” he struggled to say, to come up with a reason as to why he would say such a thing to his superior. “This is our room. He trespassed.”

“No,” Alfred said sadly as he leaned forward, so close to Arthur, so tender in his tone, “this is his house. He lives here. It’s his property. He has every right to come in here.”

“Exactly,” Arthur tried to prop himself up better, trying so hard to find his stiff upper lip. “We are his property too. What right do we have to run away?”

Alfred took a breath in. “The right to life… liberty and…” He tried targeting what he knew of John Locke’s work.

“Oh please, you have never even read that book,” he spat as he pointed at the ball of destroyed pages beside them.

“Yes. But it’s the idea that counts, isn’t it?” His voice was firm as he recited Arthur’s own words from two days ago. His eyes burned with teary determination as he stared straight back into Arthur’s own.

The latter looked right back at him at him, and Alfred didn’t know what he saw in him; was it naivety stupid childlike escapism, his eagerness, ambition, a moral code, a sense of justice? Whatever it was, it became evident that it was something good, something the older clearly admired within him, as his expression softened, and he looked at him with tender affection.

“You don’t deserve this sort of treatment from anyone,” he suddenly said in a broken voice as he pointed out to the room around them, refusing to look at him. “You deserve…” His voice cracked before continuing again, slowly and emotively, “so much better.”

“Then get me out,” Alfred replied gently, urging him with kind yet determined eyes. “If not for your own sake – because you don’t deserve this either! – then for me. Please get me home, Arthur. Let me go home. Please take us home to Matthew, and we can be happy again.”

It was a long moment of silence before Alfred heard Arthur sigh. His heart began to race in anticipation as it sounded more of a liberated, happy, fuck-it-all sigh more than a fatigued one. Like Arthur had chained himself up in his own thoughts and Alfred had finally let him set himself free with those words.

“All right then... But we have the duty to return once he dies. I’m sure over time another monarch shall arise and reward us for our grief.” Arthur turned to Alfred with a fiery look in his eyes, “I can’t wait for you to see a real monarch who truly knows their stuff. Oh what a sight to see, they are!”

Alfred beamed. He almost couldn’t believe it. Arthur said they were going home. Home. They were going _home_. They were gonna see Mattie again! How long has it been since he had played ball with that Canadian, or chase, or had a limerick competition that they would have to ban Arthur from because his would always be too good for theirs. He laughed at the thought. They were really going home!

Arthur sighed as he sat up, standing up alongside Alfred as the younger boy smiled up at the air, praising whichever angel was up there was watching over them and blessing him with the gift of persuasion.

“We should take our leave tonight then,” Arthur said as he nudged Alfred to get his attention. “The sooner the better. We have no idea what sparked this… assault, so we better head out in case they blockade the out-of-bounds area.”

Alfred turned back to him, confused. Well, that was sudden shift. A little too much persuasion, maybe. “I thought you liked to plan?”

Arthur chuckled humorlessly as he looked at him with devious eyes. “I do have a plan. Get out. Find the River Thames. Then _run_ , just as you said,” he purred as he unlocked the hatch with a firm push and re-opened the window with a smooth slide. He then looked back at Alfred expectantly, daringly. Like a call out to him, ‘it’s us against the world, now, colony boy’.

Alfred nodded slowly as he looked outside, suddenly frightened of the idea of running away. A small breeze made its way into the room, its exact origin unknown from within the depths of the darkening outside world. The sun was beginning to set as a strong orange shone above the horizon. He turned back to look at the room he had lived in for the past few months one last time. From three months of the exact same routine, this certainly, definitely wasn't a perfectly normal day anymore.

“I guess I’ll get the candles then,” he said cautiously as another wave of chilly air hit him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> run boy run,  
> this world is not meant for you...
> 
> i edited this chapter because after researching for a bit i found out that bars of chocolate were only invented in 1847 oopsies. Chocolate drinks however were available for the elite English by this time period so there we go Alfie, your sweet treat is now in liquid form.


	5. The year was 1765

Arthur was starting to make Alfred doubt his own personal stance on the nonexistence of magic. He thought for so long, that after the mayhem in Salem ended, he had come to his senses and determined illusive things like witchcraft and pixies and fairies and any other type of creature similar to them all but foolish fantasies. However, as he walked, watching Arthur tiptoe on the edges of cloudy darkness and dance along the breeze in the moonlight with magnificent grace and ease just ahead of him, he found that he could no longer reassure himself about the certainty of such a conclusion.

It was like some spirit had swapped their bodies while they were not looking. Once, behind those walls Arthur was so determined to serve the King, to do his duty, to be a good empire. Now they had run from that very same duty he was so adamant about fulfilling, he led the way in their hiding, holding his own candle own in front to guide himself as its soft orange light illuminated his wide wild eyes filled with excitement and fierce lion’s grin radiating pride. The gold and green were stunning to look at, and he clung onto their imagery like they made an icon; as if they were the only things left in the world that could reassure Alfred on his decision.

The more and more he thought about what they had just done, the more frightened he became. His body was on fire, in defense mode, ready to run at any time and refusing to stay still. Static ran through his veins at an unsettling rate as a current of questions began ramming into his head. He didn’t know this country like Arthur did. He had chosen to run into this blindly. How could they make it back to the colonies? What about money and food? They may be immoral, but that didn’t stop them from starving and dying and resurrecting and starving again in an endless cycle of pure agony, like in all those legends the other nations have told him. Or what about shelter and safety? Who knew what sort of discomforts they would feel travelling across the world? And where would they go, and how would they get there?

All of a sudden the idea to run sounded stupid. So stupid. Why had they run again? Because Alfred got scared and begged Arthur to leave? If he had not done that, would they still be there? Would they be secure in that old Lodge, under the wing of their terrible boss?

The very person that they had left was their _boss_! He was their King, the very man they were supposed to obey and follow to the death. Now that they had left him, abandoned him and insulted his name, whose orders did they follow? Who did they answer to? Who was their guidance? As a child, Alfred had only memories of following people and doing as they say. He vaguely remembered being guided by what could have been a mother. He could barely reach memories of living under the care of centuries upon centuries of dozens of different elders from all different cultures, and how they would steer him through spiritual paths he had all but forgotten now in dialects that no one else alive was left to speak. And when those people passed through old age or invasion or plague, he was taken under the charge of Finland, then Holland, then who knows what else; it was all just a blur in his underdeveloped mind.

All that Alfred knew is that he had always had somebody to look up to, to help guide him, to give him direction. But now he had fled from his guidance, from his boss, from the reign of King George, with a young inexperienced empire that he had fallen in love with. He suddenly felt like a spoiled little child, running away from his own problems and responsibilities as a personification and refusing to take them on as his duties to the world.

He found himself walking closer and closer to Arthur, his body begging for some sort of familiarity in the cloudy empty night. He looked up to Arthur, both theoretically and physically. The man still walked with a spring in his step and swagger in his hips, with his chin turned up and a smile on his lips. He seemed to be humming something idly, a soft tune Alfred could barely remember. It must have been a song from decades ago that had fallen out of fashion and had been left to the dust.

The younger personification just couldn’t understand it. For weeks, England had been so adamant about his duties to the crown, to their duty to the King, to their duty to represent the people before the crown and give them a proper, unbiased voice in politics. Now, after one outburst from Alfred and they were suddenly leaving, and it was as if all things Arthur had said before he seemed to have entirely forgotten. The man was a true enigma to Alfred; he was never one to be understood. That didn’t stop Alfred from trying, though.

“You’re an enigma, you know that?” He blurted out finally after almost an entire hour of silent walking.

Arthur glanced at him and chuckled before replying. “Whatever do you mean?”

“What I mean is,” Alfred sighed, “why are you so happy?” He cringed as his head began to throb, as if it were angry at him for questioning such a thing.

Arthur looked him up and down. “Are you saying I should not be happy?”

“No! No, I mean yes you should be. I just…” he rubbed his forehead as he tried to think. “You didn’t want to leave at first, and I’m just confused. You seem so happy to leave him, but before you were so big on the whole duty to him thing that I’m just… yeah I think I’ve got a headache.”

Arthur laughed sternly before stopping. “Would you like us to stop for a while? I believe we have already covered quite the distance. We are almost where we need to be...”

“No.” He ran a hand through his hair. “No, I’m fine. We should keep going if we’re so close. I’m just… unsure about this now.” He whispered the last part, uncertain of how Arthur would take it.

The Empire pursed his lips and held his candle out to Alfred’s face, seemingly concerned. “How so?”

Alfred bit his lips and looked away, putting his free hand on his hip. “It’s not that bad, really. Let’s just go –”

“No, no. No. We are not going anywhere. I know that face.”

“What face?” Alfred gasped, looking back at Arthur square in the eyes accusingly.

“That one! The one you are making right now!” He sighed before pinching his nose. “You appear all scrunched up like you are about to burst at the seams. Then you try to relax yourself but it rarely ever works without myself intervening and it frightens me…” He let his words fizzle out as he looked away. He ran a hand through his hair. “What is the matter? Please tell me. Something is bothering you, and now it is bothering me too. What is it?”

Alfred shook his hands over his head. “I’m scared!” He shouted out with an accusatory fear. “That's it, alright!” He shrugged his shoulders, not knowing what else to do. “I’m really really scared! This was a stupid idea... Where are we even going? I don’t –”

“We’re going to stay at an old shed I own down the river,” Arthur replied smoothly, almost soothingly.

Alfred took a step backwards. “A shed?” He had no idea why he felt so repulsed. “We’re gonna live in a fucking shed!” He took another step back, shocked by the agression in his own tone. Why was he acting like this?

Arthur shook his head. “No, we’re not living there. We're simply stopping there for supplies. We're staying for a while, so we have the chance to rest and regroup. We are going to live with Matthew, remember? We will be getting there; I promise you that.”

Alfred nodded slowly, trying to steady his breath before awkwardly shifting on his feet. He tried to move himself closer to Arthur again. “I’m sorry,” he whispered slowly.

“For what?” Arthur asked softly as he wrapped an arm around him.

“For yelling. And for doubting you. You always have a plan,” he mumbled as he leaned into Arthur, feeling his eyes start to sting and dampen. Arthur always gifted him with so much patience when it counted. It made him feel so safe.

They stayed that way for a while until Alfred finally spoke again. “I guess I’m just real frightened of the big change. Everything's moving so fast... And I’m gonna miss our little room. I loved our fireplace. And I’m gonna miss Mrs Porter and her amazing soups and chocolates... And how all the younger maids would sing with me and dance around the table…”

Arthur let him finish before speaking. “I know,” he said with great emotion in his voice. Two simple words, and yet Alfred knew exactly what he meant.

He could hear days and weeks and months of memories flooding through his vision, of happy dances and delicious foods and stupid jokes and limericks and jolly people living within beautiful beige walls. Arthur loved his people. He loved being with them, he loved interacting with them, he loved working alongside them. Alfred loved watching Arthur as he would toast to better days and then help organize the day with Mr Phillips with such a bright smile on his face. Living on his own land gave him such a boost, such livelihood that could never be replicated anywhere else. In hindsight, the King was just a man who kept to himself most of the time. The Lodge wasn’t evil, and the people there were good. Running away from them was hard for Alfred. He couldn’t even begin to imagine how hard it was for Arthur.

“But,” he interjected Alfred’s happy thoughts with a crisp yet courteous tone. “It is our duty is to represent our people, and we cannot fulfill that role properly if we are not safe nor free, and seeing you so scared and entrapped while in that place has shattered me so.” He whispered those last words so quietly it could have been inaudible.

Alfred drew Arthur into a full embrace, careful of where they held their candles. He finally let it all out as his Magna Arthur pulled him in tighter, humming gently by his ear and stroking his hair. His uneasy limbs shook until they settled, and his tears fell and were dried and wiped away. He held his head back, looking up at the sky. He took in one big breath, welcoming in the fresh new air of the outside world, and sighed, feeling safe and secure in Arthur’s strong and sturdy arms. He rested himself on Arthur’s chest, and savored the moment as Arthur rocked him from side to side, almost as if they were dancing. Dancing to a song made completely out of silence. The sound of their freedom.

So this was Arthur’s logic... Alfred guessed that he was right. Their duty was to the people they represented, and their representations could not be deemed trustworthy if they were sourced from such slanted judgments formed by abuse. And leaving became a necessity.

They were not fools, though. Leaving their home would always be a hard thing to do, especially when they could remember more good times than bad times at that place. Although, a million good times could never excuse those bad times, and so they took their chance to leave and ran for it.

Alfred pulled out of the embrace to get a better look at Arthur. He was smiling brightly and he was so hopeful and youthful with those green eyes of his that shimmered. His face illuminated grandly in the gold and silver lights offered by the candles and the moonlight.

“Are we feeling better, now?” He asked softly as he held Alfred's chin up.

For the first time since leaving not only the Lodge, but also his dear brother and his precious homeland all those months ago, Alfred felt a genuine smile form on his lips. “Never felt better than now,” he chuckled.

“Right,” Arthur replied, nodding curtly and contently. “Off we hop, then. Not too far now.”

They continued walking in the dark, passing some empty streets and some busy ones, always staying to the side, never loosing their fast pace. The two of them enjoyed a comfortable silence as they walked, sometimes playing foot games, stepping over rocks and patches of grass, and pretending that if they touched the dirt they would dissolve.

Arthur joked to him about how they left at just the right moment. They knew the King was planning to leave around October, and with his paranoia increasing by the day, who know where they would have been sent off to! God forbid, if they were separated… “We’re both so lucky you knocked some sense into me, Jones boy!” He cried out in jest.

Alfred couldn’t help but think it was more the King and his violent hand that knocked Arthur about, although he kept that awful, echoing judgement to himself. He shook his head forcefully, trying to rid his mind of the sudden flashing images. He didn’t want to remember again how those beige walls of theirs were so often stained and soaked with red.

He reached out for Arthur’s hand, who took it, with each boy holding their candle in the opposite hand, and he began pulling him along the path faster. He looked down to the river they were walking along, begging for some sort of distraction to pop out. Instead, the distraction came from beside him.

“Ah, the river Thames. I love this river. It never fails to intrigue me. The ‘hub of Londinium’, that was the name my mother called it by,” Arthur said blissfully before huffing. “Of course, my affections for it have greatly diminished after my father attempted to drown me beneath her waters, however some love still remains.”

“What?” Alfred nearly laughed in shock in response. He blinked a few times, repeating the words in his head. “Your father what?”

“Attempted to drown me. Yes, he was quite the cross one. Never liked me much… evidently.” He said it like it were merely a minor inconvenience to him.

Alfred blinked again, stunned, yet also curious. He had always wondered what the ages in Europe before his own were like, after all, that was what sparked his own interest in the Magna Carta. And, maybe Arthur wouldn’t be as much of an enigma as Alfred initially thought if he simply just tried talking to him.

“Well,” Alfred started, unsure if he was treading dangerous waters, “what happened?”

“I have not the slightest clue, he just snapped and tried to drown me. Truth is I barely remember him. But I do remember my older brothers.” Arthur tapped his head twice with his finger and laughed. He seemed delighted to share his past with Alfred.

“What about them?” He urged him to continue. He guessed these waters were not only safe to tread but you were also encouraged to dive in and take a swim, which was a bonus. Alfred knew nothing of Arthur’s siblings.

“The amount of times they have tried to kill me as well, and the times I have tried to kill them after having enough. They hate me the most, I believe. They think me nothing but a bastard, literally. They believe I am the child of an affair,” he chuckled lightly as he said it, clearly mocking their beliefs.

“You don’t believe that?” He asked nervously.

“Oh, God no, Alfred!” He laughed. “Make no mistake, they are my half-brothers; Dylan, Seamus and Alasdair; sons of Gael,” he said as he shrugged, “but I assure you I am no Gaelic. That man died long before our mother, Britannia, met my father and – who I believe – remarried.”

“Oh,” Alfred replied sheepishly. He didn’t know what to say. “Do you know his name?”

“No. But I know who my cousins are in relation to him, so I make guesses.”

Alfred suddenly jumped up in excitement. Cousins? He could never ever dare dream of having cousins! All that Alfred had was Matthew as his brother, the remembrance of his mother, and a brief memory of a white man who had long blond hair and a thin metal helmet so, so very long ago. The idea was just too enthralling to contain in his mind. He pepped up and swung their conjoined hands back and forth as he skipped and Arthur walked, saying, “well, what are your cousins’ names, then?”

“I knew you would find that fascinating,” Arthur chimed before continuing. “Well, many are dead already. But I suppose the main living ones would be Gilbert; personification of Prussia, and his little brother, and Ivan; personification of Russia, and his two sisters, but my relation to him is much more distant.” He leaned in to whisper in Alfred’s ear with a mischievous grin. “He is from the East; Slavic.”

Alfred gasped at that one. He had never met somebody so far east before! “What’s he like?”

“Well, Good Queen Bess used to correspond with Ivan the Terrible, and we would send each other letters along with their mail. He seemed like a rather strange man, but interestingly exotic. Gloriana enjoyed my reading of his letters quite a bit. I finally had the chance to meet him, however, when he came to visit my house with Peter the Great, his first emperor. Peter was a good man at least, in my eyes, enthralled by every sight of a possible new technology. But the personification Ivan himself? Reclusive, distant, cold, in person. I felt his small smile could have cut me in half. I have to admit he frightened me a bit.” He turned to look at Alfred thoughtfully. “I do hope he is a poor representation of the Russian people. It would be a shame to have more creatures such as himself roaming across the Earth.”

Alfred bit his lip. That didn’t sound too nice. He didn’t know if Arthur was being harsh or Ivan was really like that, but either way, the experience of hosting both of them in the same room didn’t sound too pleasant. Suddenly the fantasy of a happy family gathering sounded unrealistic. Maybe having no cousins wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

Arthur must have read his mind because when he began to speak it was a dismissal of all the positives of having relatives in nationhood. “Having as little personal friends as possible is the most desirable initiative, Alfred. Trust me, loving somebody you go to war with is something I have always attempted to avoid. I have seen…” He paused before his words could break away. He took a deep breath, then continued, “I have seen so many souls shrivel and rot in the face of such adversities, of living on the opposite side of the battlefield to family.”

Tension settled within the air before he added more cheerfully, in a shorthanded attempt to re-lighten the mood, “Gilbert is a rather interesting character, though. I know he is my favorite. I think you would like him, given the chance to meet him.”

Alfred found himself clinging onto every word Arthur said as he delivered his words with great exposition and a booming voice, as if telling the most magnificent fantasy to Alfred he had ever written. But this one, he knew, was the truth about Arthur’s own world, which made it all the more important to Alfred. He giggled before responding, “really?”

“Yes, but I warn you; he is a strange one. The German states around him… are unified, but not really. I find it difficult to explain. But really, I believe there are about maybe even three hundred different states, and they are individual communities with different cultures, different languages, even. But they only have one,” he let go of Alfred’s hand to point a single finger to the sky, “only one personification.”

“Really?” Alfred asked again, even more enthralled.

“Yes,” Arthur nodded, his eyes lighting up over the fact that Alfred was willing to listen to his rambles, “Japan is the same as well. He is an oriental country in the very Far East, the furthest east you can possibly go! His states were warring against each other, they might still be to this day, I do not know. Again, his peoples were independent to each other before he unified. I learnt weapon-less martial arts from him, did you know. It was quite entertaining, and good to know as a smaller nation, especially when every nation in Europe has turned to weapons-based martial arts. I will have to teach you some of it. What happens when a fight breaks out and there is no sword around, then, mhh?”

Alfred giggled again before crying out melodramatically. “Oh, I don’t know! I guess you would have to come and save me again, like you did in the last war!”

“Yes, and I would do so in a heartbeat,” Arthur said almost bittersweetly before frowning. He paused his rant for a moment, seemingly deep in thought, before continuing, “well... I suppose in the end I am not so different from either of them. I was born a heptarchy myself, representing many different peoples and cultures completely unrelated to each other at one point. They were in no way connected to each other, all independent from each other. But for some reason, I personified them all… Mhh, I assume that it is all a prophecy, then,” he ended on a cheerful note.

“A prophecy?” Alfred asked, prompting him.

Arthur nodded. “If there is only one personification for multiple peoples and cultures at once, then somewhere down the line, sometime in the future – wherever it be months or days or centuries - they will all be unified. Connected by something out of their control, in one way or another.”

Alfred hummed, seeming to understand. That seemed to make sense. He leaned his head back as he let himself get lost in his own thoughts. It made him wonder... Why there were no personifications for each and every American colony on their own? Did they not all have their own cultures, and their own histories? There is no 'Virginia', and there was never any 'New Amsterdam'... But why? How could they ever be united, as Arthur had said? Why was he just _one_ , and not thirteen different people?

A moment of silence passed as they continued walking, Alfred still pondering before Arthur pointed to a dark shadowy building that stood before them. It was barely lit in the soft, looming moonlight.

“We have made it,” Arthur said simply, halting as if he were a soldier on duty.

“Oh thank God!” Alfred cried, deflating. “We have been walking for ages! For centuries!”

“Just maybe an hour or two,” Arthur responded monotonously, checking the surrounding area for anything suspicious.

“Well whatever,” Alfred rolled his eyes. “But thank God that you forced us to do those exercises every day in that little tiny room of ours, overwise my legs would be dead by now!”

That made Arthur scoff. “Well it was a complete waste of time for me. I have brand new legs along with brand new everything. I should have just relaxed and commanded you from our bed.”

Alfred laughed softly, thinking of Arthur sitting all snug and smug under the blankets as he barked orders and laughed with a smirk on his face.

“Now," Arthur said, commanding attention. "What we are going to do is go in and get some money I stored in there a few years back... for safekeeping. I want to bribe a merchant ship to let us ride with them to the New World. It saves me from threatening people to let us on-board, and I know how much you hate that...”

Alfred let out a sharp exhale, suddenly feeling tense and uncomfortable in his own shoes. “Am I the only reason you’re restraining yourself from doing things like that?” He asked, frowning and feeling let down.

“No!” Arthur quickly interjected. “I am trying my best to become a better person… but I guess in the end you are right, because you were the one who has inspired me.”

He felt himself a blush in response, feeling fluttery and almost amused that Arthur could find himself being inspired by him.

“Besides…” Arthur continued, snapping him to reality, sounding more serious, “these are my own people, here. I do not wish to hurt them in any way.”

Alfred nodded, accepting that. He swung his arms and felt his joints relax; Arthur really did care about his people. “Fair enough.”

“However, if we find any Spanish ships I might reconsider my stance,” he quickly added with a laugh.

“Arthur!” Alfred exclaimed, but the Empire refused to pay any heed to his outcry, for they had managed to reach the shed.

The shed up close was revolting and ugly, and vile and disgusting. If Alfred ever came across the architect he would just fall to their knees and beg ‘why’ over and over again. He chuckled at the thought, running his lips around the inside of his mouth as he wondered and pondered about what they looked like. He pushed too hard and felt an ulcer painlessly pop from within his mouth, letting out tasteless puss and flattening his cheek interior back to its original nice smoothness. He enjoyed the newfound and painless access to his cheek, but that didn’t stop him from groaning and spitting out in disgust. How absolutely God-forsakenly revolting, like this fucking ugly shed.

He hummed to himself. Arthur would think it poetic. No more painful mouth sores, no more bloody red room. No more King. Just an ugly shed that looked rickety and unstable and uncertain of itself. Yet Alfred was free. They were free! Free from pain, from dictation, from entrapment. The shed may have been ugly as hell, but that was a fundamental part of freedom, warts and all, Alfred guessed.

“Do you like my shed, Alfred? I built it myself while half plastered on rum!” Arthur cheered gleefully with a big cocky grin across his face. He had opened three locks on the shed door while Alfred had been idly watching in the meantime and he was already onto the last two. He was clearly very proud of his drunken building skills.

Alfred stood shocked, looking at Arthur for a few moments with his mouth agape. He looked so stupidly happy and proud of that God-awfully built shed, that Alfred found all he could do in reaction was to just laugh. He laughed truly, really, unadulteratedly as he leaned over, dropped his candle on the dirt road and put his hands on his knees. It was a deep, heaving laugh that made him struggle to catch on to his next breath, but it was so very real and true, and it felt so _good_. It was not just a tiny giggle or a soft chuckle, as all he had been doing the past few months at Richmond Lodge. It was no light little laugh. It was a real, really real tremendous, lifesaving, life-breathing, out of this world, all the stones off of his chest, liberated to sky high, inglorious laugh.

But of course, once Alfred found that he started laughing, he couldn’t stop. And he found he didn’t want to.

That didn’t stop Arthur from kicking him, however, while shouting that it “really did not look too shabby in the daylight, you insulting heathen!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some family headcanon stufffff fun :))))
> 
> While I am not too sure there was any blood mixing between the Russian and British royal families before queen Victoria, I have made them cousins anyway just for some cool Kaiser-Tsar-King foreshadowing for the Great War. I do know however that by the Hanover family, the Brits and Germans were certainly blood related, and the Germans and Russians are quite connected by blood too so why not cousin chainlink them all up into a big fun messy family tree so there can be some good family feud drama later down the line...  
> [Here's a lovely super short crashcourse article on Britsh-Russian royal relations if you're interested](https://www.rbth.com/history/329096-russian-tsars-british-royals)
> 
> The white man with the strange hat that Alfred is referring to in his 'family' is Leif Erikson, an Icelandic Norse explorer, the first European to ever land his ship on the wonderful world of North America in the year 1000 or 1003 [people debate it (they also debate how far down they ended up travelling, but most evidence says they reached as far down as modern day Maine)]...  
>  **!! I have edited this chapter a little bit after heaps more research, and now I feel more comfortable with how things have married up !!**  
>  There is evidence the Norse people had peaceful and mutual trade with at least a couple of ancestor communities to the modern Inuit peoples (such as the Thule), and also the Beothuk of Newfoundland, who both had [in the middle ages] their own individual cultures and languages that can still be seen as an influence over multiple Inuit and Mi'kmaq communities respectively to this day.  
> Occasionally there were hostilities between the Norse and a few different groups of people on the American continent, but those records are heavily edited by Christian sources to make both sides - but especially the pagan Norse fighters - to seem primitive, and the more Christian Norsemen who had converted to the 'correct faith' like Leif Erikson himself and his mother were promoted as more civilized. In the end, we can't judge the true nature of these 'legends' of sporadic violence due to the heavy editing and censorship they have gone through, but it is widely regarded that communities of people such as the Beothuk and the Norse expansionists seemed to respect and honor each other in battle whenever they occasionally would fight.  
> I like to headcanon that Alfred and Matthew were really born around then and simply lived their lives in relative peace and stagnant growth before Finland comes around and finds them as he did in the Hetalian canon. I like to see them as never growing past toddler-ship because there were no permanent European settlements that grew from Erikson's expeditions.
> 
> \- If you see a mistake in anything I have written, feel free to share! I like to ensure things are correct, fun and most of all well-informed.
> 
> **Thanks for reading :)**


	6. The year was 1765

Alfred held the candle to the last lock, observing its features. It was a basic warded lock of low security value, and the rust had rotten its core so bad that it looked about ready to snap off right then and there with a dramatic _thunk_ - _tiss_ as it hit the grass. In his eyes, all that Arthur had done by putting five locks on the door was raise suspicion for the surrounding people that something valuable was stored in there and could be stolen, like money. He skimmed his eyes across what he could see of the shed. There was no sign of a break in. Well it was about time somebody did.

He hit the lock with a swift and hefty _thunk_ , and low-and-behold, it made a _tiss_ sound as it hit the grass. He scoffed. Just as he thought; it ripped off the door in a heartbeat. He wondered why Arthur had even bothered with his little treasure hunt, rummaging around the outskirts of the shed, looking everywhere in all its nooks and crannies to find were he scattered the keys all those years ago.

“Arthur, come back I just ripped it off,” he called out tiredly. He just wanted to get in there at that point. “You found all the other keys real fast, but this is getting ridiculous. C’mon, let’s just go in.”

Arthur appeared from around the corner, returning from his round-the-shed adventure huffing and puffing. “Are you bloody kidding me?” He cried as he held up the last key in Alfred’s face. “I just found it! I just found it and you bloody rip the bloody –”

“Excuse me, I find your use of profane language to be very insulting,” he said with a hand on his hip and a tired smile.

“Oh shut up, that only became a ‘profane word’ in seventeen hundred and sixty,” he said in a tone that mocked whatever authority he was jabbing at. The language authority, maybe.

Alfred yawned, and then he sighed. He was beginning to feel droopy, and while personifications could heal at rapid rates, they didn’t have immunity to the night-time weather. The wind was picking up, and he was starting to shiver. He also felt unsafe standing outside. Who knew when somebody would realize they had run away. In his eyes wasting time looking around for keys was a stupid move.

“I don’t see why we didn’t just break the locks in the first place…” He trailed off. If Arthur owned the shed himself, why couldn’t he just do what he wanted with it? And if that included things such as breaking it, then so be it. It was an ugly shed anyway.

He heard Arthur huff as he grumbled, “because unlike the land we are heading to, this here is a civil society.” He then opened his mouth wide, clearly about to start a lecture about the importance of maintaining societal rules and structure before Alfred interjected lazily with an eyebrow raised.

“So civil that people consummate their relationships on the ground in the forest?”

Arthur paused, his face frozen as his eyes darted about, attempting to process what he had just been told. He closed his mouth and shuffled his feet, looking down at the ground. He looked up in agitation, opening his mouth yet again before closing it and looking back down and sighing. “Very well,” he finally said. “Get inside then.”

“Yay!” Alfred replied partly sarcastic, partly relieved. Sometimes Arthur could be so weird. He opened the rugged shed door, tugging it with one hand as it jammed a couple of times and using his other hand to present the new opening to Arthur.

“Nations first,” he said in laughter before snidely adding, “oh, I mean _civilized_ nations first.”

“Oh, don’t be crass,” Arthur whispered as a small smile creeped across his face. He welcomed himself into the shed and Alfred followed suit, closing the door behind them.

“Shit it’s dark in here,” he cried from behind. Outside they had relied more on the strong moonlight to guide their path, and being inside suddenly revealed the lack of useful light that singular candlesticks could produce on their own. The air from the room felt dense, however, bringing him the comforting sensation of artificial warmth. “At least it’s warmer in here though.”

“Stuffy,” Arthur asserted. “It is more stuffy in here.” He shuffled over, pointing to a line of barely illuminated drawers and chests against the left wall. “Help me check through these. I remember storing everything on the left side.”

They hurried to the left, picking up containers and placing them onto the ground, scurrying and huddling as they opened them and hastily started searching through them, holding the candles to the series of papers and glass ornaments and wrappers that they found. There was no money there. Arthur huffed and stood up, moving to the drawers, Alfred following after him. He anxiously opened the compartments, gesturing for Alfred to provide him with light as he picked up random items and threw them out with increasing frustration.

“Where could it be?” He questioned quietly as he searched, sounding increasingly unsettled.

Alfred looked around the room as Arthur continued to grumble and rush through the insides of the drawers before him, moving from one to the other and then to the next at an increasingly fastening pace to no avail. He felt his eyes slowly adjust to the room and he was able to just make out the corners of the shed. He yawned. There were no signs of forced entry apart from their own, so the money must have still been in there somewhere. They would just have to keep hunting for it.

“Check the chests,” Arthur called out to him, bringing him back into focus. “They were from my privateering days; they are bound to have something.” Despite his bold statements, his tone of voice remained uncertain itself – unnerving Alfred with every word.

He stepped over the mountain of trinkets built up on the floor by Arthur’s anxious antics, nearly tripping on the way as he walked to the backside of the shed. He yawned again before searching through the last few cabinets and chests on the floor. One brown and yellow chest in particular caught his eye, and he abandoned his search to look at it closer. It was an enchanting yet modest box, with beautiful embroidery sewed on top and soft patterns of flowers indented into it. Alfred nearly chuckled as he leaned down to open it up. This must be it, what else could it be? He could almost hear the swashbuckling stories from Arthur as he proudly recited the tale of how that one was obtained.

He opened it hastily, ready to see golden bars and piles of jewels… but it was empty. Alfred felt a pang in his gut as a ball of fire spread across his body, the sudden pain from the heat waking him up in full force. The privateer treasure was gone. Could it have been stolen? Again, Alfred looked around the shed, finding no signs of forced entry. No, nobody could have taken it. Well then, maybe this wasn’t the right box. He bit his lip and looked up to Arthur, who was watching him intently. He had finished the entire wall, all its former items spilled across around the room. There was nothing in there.

He simply sat there blankly, feeling defeated. Arthur slammed his back into the wall, looking up and blinking rapidly. His chest was visibly shivering and heaving, and the sight of it made Alfred’s lip waver. He bit onto it for a second before letting go and standing up as straight as he could.

“Well,” he said slowly, cautiously. He had to think of a way to help Arthur quickly. “Maybe we could go back and ask for help…”

“No, we cannot go back,” he moaned angrily before regaining his composure. “Look, it will be all right. We will just have to find another way.”

Alfred nodded slowly, still not convinced as his mind scurried for a way to get Arthur to agree. The only thing he could think of was to return and ask the servants for assistance. “I’m sure Mr Phillips would help if he knew…”

“No,” he rebuked with a frown, “I know my people, Alfred, and I know Mr Phillips. He is –” he slashed the air with his palm as if it were a sword – “ _staunchly_ for King and country. He will never betray his sovereign like that.”

“But you are the country part of that very ‘King and country’!” Alfred cried.

“But we are committing high treason here, Alfred, remember that. We are the King’s property, and we have run away. That is treason,” he sounded shattered as he said it.

“You can’t read his mind, though. You don’t know how he would react,” Alfred tried desperately, halfway down the road of the hysterical. That man had cared for and loved them for their entire stay. He couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t help them, or worse, even turn them in.

“He has his own very English ideals and principles, which we are currently betraying,” Arthur attempted to sound calm, yet each word he said gained even greater emotion than the next. He took a big breath in before whispering, “he loves George… hell, I think I still do too, no matter how crazy he has gotten over the past year. We were both the ones who watched him grow up, after all.” He shook his head before a moment of silence filled the room. Finally, he spoke with almighty resolve. “No. To aid us would be treason, and he will not betray the King especially when he has only known you for three months. We are in this alone!”

Alfred was shocked that Arthur could ever say something like that, but he trusted his judgement. These were his people after all. He hung his head low. He thought Mr Phillips cared about them, but clearly he was wrong. He wondered if his dear motherly Mrs Porter would do the same as well, or even his own people back in his old house. Would they sell him out if he ran from his own boss? He closed his eyes tight. The thought of that was just too painful.

Arthur sighed deeply, then spoke sincerely, clapping his hands together in an attempt to refresh the air. “We are just going to have to find another way. This is all but a minor setback. Trust me, Alfred. We will be all right. I will find a new way, trust me.” He let out a little huff and said in an exhausted _almost_ sarcastic tone, “I am the British Empire, after all.”

Alfred didn’t reply, but he turned around silently, looking around the room for one last scan in desperation before spotting just one more chest in the corner. He swallowed as he felt his heart elevate, his thoughts buzzing with hope.

Arthur laughed as he pointed at the pile, leaving the chest in the corner completely unnoticed. “Maybe we could find something in all this rubble to help us,” he chuckled lightly, glancing at Alfred in a failed attempt to get him to smile.

He remained fixated on the box, staring at it with wonder. The chest was rather large, a bulky dark thing with no decorations. It didn’t look at all look like a container of currency, but it was the only one not checked yet. He smiled lightly as he grabbed his candlestick and began heading towards it.

Arthur must have noticed where he was going as he replied, “oh, that one is on the right side. Nothing will be in it. Come, help me out here.” He heard Arthur pick up a few trinkets and throw them back onto the ground, yet he didn’t turn his head to heed what had happened.

He leaned down in front of the chest and smiled lightly as he brushed his hand over the top. It felt wooden and wasn’t smooth. He opened the hatch and lifted the lid, holding the candle down in anxious anticipation to see if he had finally struck gold.

Oh. There was just a bunch of fabrics and stuff. The looked real pretty, something he would love to look at and cuddle and feel at any other given time. But not now. Not when he was after gems and jewels. He felt his eyes go glassy, and the pretty fabrics all blurred together in his vision as he picked one up to hug it tight for some form of comfort. He turned back to Arthur and held it up to him, whimpering, “you were right…”

Arthur suddenly perked up, frantically grabbing the other candle on the drawer as he made his way to Alfred as he sat dejectedly by the chest. He grabbed the fabric out of his hand with a soft tug as he leaned a hand on his shoulder for support. “Well, damn me to hell,” he whispered as a bright smile formed across his face. Alfred had to blink a few times to make sure he was seeing properly. Had he just lost his mind?

Arthur began laugh-crying. “Oh, I feel so embarrassed!” He had damn near gone hysterical, “I am so sorry for startling you earlier… Oh, I do apologize. Oh no, please accept my apology. Oh dear…”

Alfred leaned away from his hand, his brows furrowed as he murmured quietly, “I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

“This,” Arthur held the little piece of cloth to his chest as he cried out in joy, “is our money, Alfred!”

Alfred was taken aback. That didn’t make any sense. “Wait, you mean… You mean the cloths? These cloths?”

“Yes!” He cried, half in delirium half in regret. “Again, I am so sorry. I thought I stored actual banknotes here. My memory must have gotten all muddled up. Again, with it being on the right side and not the left and… Oh, I’m so sorry.”

Alfred blinked. He looked straight into Arthur’s flustered face. If they had better lighting, he would bet he could see it redder than a rose. He smiled at the thought. How beautiful would Arthur be with red rosy cheeks. But he shook his head to rid the thought. Now was not the time. He was supposed to feel ripped off and slightly annoyed, here, damnit! Why could he never be truly mad at him for too long? Maybe it was just because he was feeling sleepy. “So I have been looking for coins and notes and shit this whole time but you were really just thinking of some cheap pieces of fabric,” he complained, trying his best to conceal bewildered laughter and sound as angry as he could while watching Arthur lean down to sit on the floor beside him.

“No!” His dear stupid and almighty Magna Arthur cried. He nearly laughed again, but stopped himself, trying to save some of the remnants of his dignity. “I am still partially right, at least,” he assured Alfred. He looked into the chest and beamed as he pulled out some of the fabrics. “These are worth more banknotes than we could dream of! They are very rare fabrics, some are even the greatest silks the East has to offer.” He chuckled as he shoved a soft yellow sheet into Alfred’s hands. It was the softest thing he had ever felt, and he couldn’t help but gasp as he wrapped it around himself.

“This here fabric pile is worth more money than you could dream of! It is like we have struck them as golden bars themselves, found within the very deep dark depths of the sea of my shed in a sunken little treasure chest to the starboard side of our ship.” Alfred laughed as Arthur sung along a little victory tune, his eyes wide in awe as he watched the older boy enthusiastically animate his little imagined escapade.

He sighed as he finished his little rant, reaching out to stroke the soft fabric wrapped around Alfred, unknowingly brushing his fingers against his tender and ticklish lower arm. Alfred felt his breath hitch as he thanked the Lord that it was too dark to see his definite blush as a soft tingly feeling blossomed throughout him.

“I must have thought of this as my greatest treasure for so long that it actually became a memory of genuine physical money to me over time,” he carried on, seemingly unaware of how flustered he had made his companion. “Again, I truly am sorry if I caused any distress.”

Alfred looked up at him and smiled softly, dizzily, sleepily, before saying, “it’s all right.” This whole forgetting situation was absurd. He could understand it, thought. Maybe all the stress and sleep deprivation from the past few months had hit Arthur real bad. That didn’t stop him from flashing a cocky grin, however. “Well if I _remember_ correctly, you were the one on the verge of panicking, and I was the one trying to offer help. Which you then rejected.” He rolled his eyes as he said it.

Arthur scoffed, looking away, but didn’t reply. Instead he turned his attention to the chest of cloths and fabrics and smiled softly, seemingly lost to his own thoughts and imagination. Suddenly he reached in, picking up one of the white handkerchiefs with intense yet delicate detail embroidered into it. It looked almost like a tapestry of a meadow, with dozens of different little flowers littered all over it. It reminded him of his own meadows at home, and running around them with Matthew. He smiled softly as the sweet little memories resurfaced. The handkerchief was real pretty.

“This one,” Arthur said gladly as he held it out on display on his palm, “was given to me by the daughter of my maternal aunt, Belgae. We call her 'Belgium' in memory of her mother, but the name itself is meaningless. She actually has no official country to personify - well, at the moment, that is. For now, she sits patiently under the care of her older brother, waiting for one to form for her..." He continued self-assured, "There will be one for her one day, I am certain. Otherwise she would not even exist at all."

“Really?” Alfred asked, mesmerized by the peculiarities of her situation as he marveled its design.

“Yes,” Arthur smiled kindly, amused with his childlike wonder. “See in the corner it says, ‘from Emma’? That is her human name. She is a beautiful young lady, you would adore her.”

Alfred smiled as he looked at its corner, where the two bright blue words were stitched in an elegant yet bold curly font, making them look like they were dancing with each other. Mistress Belgium must be good friends with Arthur for her to make something so beautiful like that for him. “She is real good at stitching,” he said as he yawned sleepily.

“Almost as good as me,” Arthur boasted with a huff as he held his head high. “She was the one to teach me embroidery, did you know? She always joked that she felt I had become better at it than her, and that I would make a lovely spinster if I ever aged like a human. Cheeky girl.”

Alfred giggled as Arthur continued to marvel over and parading around the other fabrics in his collection, letting out a proud little gasp as his eyes laid on something inside. He then picked up a sweet little purple cloth, showing it off to Alfred it all its strange distinctive shape glory before explaining.

“This one here,” Arthur said amiably as he wrapped it around his neck, fitting his form perfectly, “was a gift from my dear Queen Bess.”

“Wow!” Alfred expressed. “Then it must be old!”

Arthur chuckled before yawning. “Mhh…” He blinked a couple of times. “Yes I suppose this fashion is quite dated now.”

Alfred suddenly felt snoozy, ready to cuddle up and fall asleep. The shed acted as an excellent insulator for the cold. It was their shelter from danger, and the fabrics their freedom from tyranny. Mhh… he wondered when he started seeing Richmond Lodge as a tyranny.

“Can we sleep now?” He asked as he closed his eyes and absentmindedly snuggled up to Arthur. “I’m sleepy.”

He heard another chuckle before a mountain of fabrics fell over him. Arthur lifted his head as he lied down onto the floor and put a balled-up pile of fabrics under him to act as a pillow before blowing the candles out and cuddling up to him in the dark.

All things were peaceful before Arthur mentioned in a serious whisper, “who knows how much longer we have before our absence is to be discovered. Tonight we may be safe, but tomorrow we must leave again. The crack of dawn would be best.”

Alfred hummed in acceptance to his future foretelling, allowing that small buzzing thought to retire at the back of his brain, waiting in the dark of the night for tomorrow, where he could deal with it then. For now, he wished to sleep, and he did so, letting the worries of the future succumb to the eternal abyss of his subconscious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warded locks have been around since antiquity. They are rather useless nowadays, monasteries in the Middle Ages only used them to 'slow down' and 'confuse' any possible thieves, but they knew they were practically worthless... why use them? By this time the best locks would be combination locks, invented in the 1500s. But they were an Arab invention, so I guess the Europeans either were never exposed to it or if they were (which by trade they most likely were) they thought themselves above such technologies invented by such peoples.
> 
> Also, due to the average wage being about 20 pounds in England at this time, most people traded money through coins. Banknotes would be for the absolute rich, and it is definitely a relatively new thing for the British (at least in European standards of time), with the Bank of England forming in 1694. You will find that most people who steal in the mid to late 1700s would either steal straight up food (because they were starving) or always, always they stole fabrics, as through the right form of trade they were just beyond your dreams valuable. With cloths like that, especially with ones dealt with former monarchs such as Lizzy One, Arthur is looking at owning quite a few hundred - maybe even thousand - pounds in that there chest, which is saying a lot given to modern day inflation.
> 
> I'm very excited for the next chapter, so stay tuned!!! 
> 
> edit: I changed and added some depth to explaining Emma's character, as of course, Belgium was not its own country with its own name until 1830


	7. The year was 1765

Arthur made them leave first thing in the morning. Alfred had found it strange at first, waking up not in their bed but rather on the floor of that old ugly shed. The door had sealed so well that barely any light had passed through, and despite being on the ground he felt like he had experienced the sweetest and most soothing slumber in a long time.

They had packed as many fabrics and silks and cloths as they could into a couple of carriable cases from the corner and left as soon as possible, making their way to the Pool of London, the main shipping port of the river Thames. They had spent a good portion of that very morning going from deck to deck, looking at and all around several merchant ships that sailed still in the waters that surrounded them. They went walking to each ship’s entrance, asking the seamen and every now and again the Captain himself where they were headed, seeing if on the off chance it anywhere near the New World.

There were many ships in the port that day, so many ships that they were forced to decline. The lands they led to were places like Carmarthen and Dublin, and even a couple were leaving for Saint Petersburg - all mystic foreign lands that Alfred could only ever hope to picture in his mind. A couple of supermassive ships, sturdy enough for Transatlantic travel, did catch his eye. They seemed very promising as he ran up excitedly ready to ask the guard on duty where they were going, however he was stopped short when Arthur grabbed him by the arm and held him back with a graven expression. It was only then when he realized what those ships were for, and what type of people they held within their walls. Alfred let Arthur guide him away as he walked lowly with his eyes on the ground.

It was beyond frustrating. The only ships that seemed to openly claim passage to the New World were passenger ships themselves. But they were not an option, especially with their strict recording systems they liked to keep on check at all times. They had no tickets, and when asked for one they would be recorded as hindrances, maybe even reported or sent to the cells for investigation. They couldn’t allow that, not any excuse to leave traces of their whereabouts behind for the King to find and hunt them down with.

Alfred was the unlucky one who got to carry both of their luggage bags. He was surprised over how heavy they turned out to be and he cursed himself for being the one to offer carrying both. In all fairness, Arthur did tell him he would regret that decision it, but he didn’t listen and carried on insisting anyway. He just really wanted to be helpful, and if carrying a couple of bags of heavy weight could help ease the burden on Arthur’s mind as he navigated around the busy port and negotiated bartering, begging and bribing then he would gladly play his part. To be truthful, he found that those bags were not too much of a burden on him, especially with his own magic strength he had as a supernatural being. It was all in a day’s work. Or a day’s search for a decent ship, at this rate they were going.

He could say that something else was a burden, however. Something that bothered him to an upmost degree, that made him feel like a kettle about to boil in the heat of a thousand stares. He had noticed it a while back, but he didn’t say anything. Nonetheless, over time he spotted more and more men looking at him with prying eyes, and it was starting to get ridiculous. “Arthur,” he whispered to the nation walking beside him. “People are looking at us.”

“They are most likely curious about the bags,” he replied inattentively, scanning his eyes over the next line of ships, deep in his own thoughts, pondering whichever one to try next.

“Oh,” Alfred muttered, still unsure. “I think they are looking at me specifically, not just the bags.”

“Then they are probably eyeing you up to see when they can steal them,” he sighed, seemingly agitated by the behaviour of his own people, or even, Alfred bringing it up himself.

“Oh.” Alfred looked at the cases he was holding. One for each hand. He had no hands available to defend himself if they attacked him. What about his feet? They were free. Maybe if he kicked them, he could stop them. But then again, his kicks were very powerful. He might hurt one of Arthur’s people, and he didn’t want that.

“Well can I have permission then?” He asked nervously.

“Permission to do what?” Arthur asked bewildered, with a hint of slight amusement.

“To kick them away if they attack me.” He said it like it were obvious.

Arthur looked back at him as if he were mad. “Of course you can defend yourself! Why would I reject that?”

“Because they’re your people,” Alfred said softly, “and I don’t want to hurt them…”

Arthur’s confused expression turned softer, and he smiled gratefully. “No, do not worry yourself with things like that,” he said as he led them onto the dock of yet another ship.

This one was rather large; she could even be impressive enough to pass as a war ship. However, her decorations and decrees commanded by the man on top deck were clearly that of a merchant. Alfred scrunched his nose up. The whole place smelt strange. Arthur stopped Alfred just in front of the plank that conjoined the ship to the dock, himself staring straight at the superficially dressed man who had his back towards them as he barked out orders to some men before him.

He heard the sound of giggling women from within the room that stood beside them, the sound crystal clear as it came out from its door being swung wide open. For a second he thought it was his own imagination before two women came running out, scandalously dressed and fantastically flamboyant as they bounced and skipped, hurrying down the plank past the two boys and scurrying away into the forest of buildings down the port.

“Have you no shame, ladies?” The commanding man cried out in an upper-class Scottish accent as he watched them run away. “It’s the middle of daylight, show some propriety!”

“I would barely call those girls ‘ladies’ at all, Captain Dougal,” one of the men he was yelling at before joked as the other one beside him chuckled, both with a thick Scottish auras of their own. “They are anything but proper. Just some wee fun for us before we check off.”

Alfred put his bags down onto the ground as Arthur cleared his throat. “Good day Sir,” he called out to the Scotsman across the plank and on the safety of his ship with a boom of authority in his voice, immediately and successfully asserting himself as the dominant voice of the two. “May I ask where you and your ship ‘check off’ to this fine day at sea?”

The two men walked off to get back to their duties. The head Scotsman on the other hand – or Captain Dougal, as the seaman had called him – huffed as he walked to the plank with a slow stride, eyeing up the two teenagers with a curious eye. He seemed impressed so far at Arthur’s ability of assertion, but would he feel the same with his bargaining?

“Only if I can ask who you are,” he called out as he stood before them, letting his height tower over the two of them, but not Arthur’s lionful pride.

“Just two young boys with some wealth in our pockets and adventure on our minds. We wish to see the New World,” he turned to Alfred and smiled. “I see you are Captain of a whaling ship, am I correct? Do you not travel there?”

Alfred blinked, both his interest perking and his heart saddening. Arthur picked every ship they approached strategically, always guessing the first element about it right and going from there. So this time he must have chosen it straight from the disgusting fishy smell it omitted. Alfred smiled. He was a smart one. But the thought of an animal as majestic as a whale being hunted and dying right before his very eyes made his poor soul shiver. He knew of some natives who hunted whales for local uses and he knew of their practices to be of sustainable nature. But to transform the entire act of whale hunting for the sake of a merchant's commercial advancements? That didn't sound as stable. He just hoped - that if Arthur was right about the purpose of this ship being built for whaling - the crew on board here chose to kill those great creatures as humanely as they could.

“As a matter of fact, we do,” the Captain replied with an upstart grin, seemingly enticed by Arthur’s swift deduction skills from so far away. “We head for Newfoundland to trade only the finest train oil in the world.” The pride in his voice as he said it could have outranked Arthur’s as he spoke of his most glorious victories in past battles.

Arthur rolled his eyes as he smiled brightly at Alfred. He gave him a little wink, and Alfred nodded back in obedience, eager and appreciative to finally board a ship and head out for Matthew’s homeland. Yet something inside still left him a little apprehensive of the entire encounter.

“That is excellent to hear." Arthur grinned with great charm and a fierce look in his eyes. "How is the business going, if I have the right to ask?” Alfred watched him speak, admiring him for all his magnificent green-eyed glow and gallantry. He wondered if the way those words were said ever had the same effect on others as it did on him.

“Our business?" The Captain could have been batting his eyelashes for all they knew. "Why, we have helped keep London the best lit city in the whole world for the past twenty years, with our whale oil. It is beyond important, most likely one of the most valuable resources on the market. You should have seen the look on the men’s faces at the port as they unloaded all our cargo this morning. Tears of joy, I tell you. We are not and never will be expendable, us and our business.” He sounded so sure of himself it was like the entirety of England should have bowed down at the sight of his great big Scottish hind and kissed it right then and there.

The personification felt no compulsion to do such a thing, however. He simply continued on his flattery, albeit with crossed arms. “It is such a shame then that the navy has put a bounty on whaling ships.” His voice was sly and his eye twinkled, prompting the Captain to go on and reveal more about himself.

“Oh yes,” he took the bait with open arms, “there were eighty-three vessels involved in the business in seventeen hundred and fifty-nine. But that retched Seven Years War we just had forced us to sell our ships to the navy to be brutally stripped of all their previous valor, changed into nothing but vessels for violent battle. When the war ended in seventeen hundred and sixty-three, there were only forty of the poor lasses left.” His voice almost cracked as he told his story. Alfred looked to Arthur, wondering where this was going as the older boy took his hand and squeezed it, as if to say _I’ve got this_. Or maybe in Arthur language; _I have this all under absolute control._

“Our oil is priceless,” the Captain continued, deeply impassioned with his cause. Alfred felt himself inwardly sighing. He sounded like a ranter. “We drive this city! It is the best lit city in the world... But not when the blasted navy keeps on stripping us of our ships and conscripting our men. We have been losing profit from sheer loss of all our resources ever since that war. This ship, my dear sweet _Ailis_ , she is one of the last few left. And my crew,” he looked around for dramatic effect, “we used to be swarming. Now we are few. Curse the men who started that war! They have no idea how much they have set us all back.”

Arthur nodded, pouncing back into the exchange with his target on mind. “Now, I say, surely you could do with two extra workers with all your troubles with your crew. If you are extra low on staff, I assure you that you will need some extra cleaners with that as well. I know of two very suitable candidates for the job, and all that they will ask for is to be fed and dropped off at Newfoundland. A done deal already, if I say so myself.”

The old Captain Dougal seemed slightly intrigued by the idea, and Arthur carried on.

“You need all the help you can get,” he said determinedly, straight to the facts. “You need not pay us any wage for the troubles, especially when your profits have been so low recently.”

Captain Dougal nodded, seemingly prodding Arthur, asking for more.

He looked back at Alfred mischievously in reply. “We have small appetites, I promise you. You will not worry over you rations.”

Alfred’s eyes went wide. That was clearly a jab at him, maybe an order even, not to overeat while on board. He scoffed as he frowned and crossed his arms. Oh, come on now, he wasn’t that bad. How dare Arthur! Suddenly his persuasive skills didn’t seem at all that alluring or enticing anymore.

Arthur turned back to Captain Dougal, seemingly very amused with his reaction, which made him despise the green-eyed bastard even more. “If you wish…” He said as he pointed to the cases, “we could even pay you a lump sum to take us on board and work for you, as backwards as that may seem.”

The Captain certainly liked that prospect, rubbing his hand over his beard while smiling widely underneath it. “That seems like an awfully hearted effort to leave this dear old place,” he humored himself.

“What can I say,” Arthur replied without skipping a heartbeat. His tone could have easily been mistaken as a seductive, either that or Alfred was just going completely mad over him, and the idea of that pissed him off. “We must be really desperate for adventure.”

Captain Dougal nodded his head down, then held his hand out. “Well, when you make an offer like that, how can any man refuse? Welcome on board my dear _Ailis_. Treat her right, will you. We take our leave in the afternoon.” Arthur shook on it, then he extended his hand to Alfred and he shook it too with both of his hands and a deep look of gratitude he was sure showed off in his eyes. Despite his huffy attitudes towards Arthur, he was beyond ecstatic to hear he would be heading home sweet home so soon, and with such swift ease as well. He could not wait to just run up and hug the Devil out of Matthew when he saw him again. To see and talk to his own people again. To feel his own land under his feat as he ran across the grass and kicked the dirt into the sky. He smiled brightly at Arthur, and when he smiled back, as visibly excited as he himself was, he found that he quickly forgot and forgave all the rude food remarks he ever made about him. What mattered was that they were going home, and by God, he was willing to even let himself starve half to death if that was what it took to finally get back home where he belonged.

The Captain had given them permission to board the ship, telling them directions to their own quarters before walking up the plank and back into one of the many rooms on ship. That room at the very end he walked into was the one with the most glamorous door. It must have been his own personal room.

And just like that, the two were left alone as they stood at the front of the ship that would set sail for the New World.

Alfred turned to his bags and picked them up slowly, whispering, “I don’t think I’m very comfortable with whaling…”

Arthur scoffed, but the sympathetic look in his eye as he glanced towards him showed that he understood to some degree. “Just praise the Lord this is not a slave ship,” he hushed him quietly as he touched his arm tenderly and begun heading up the ship. “Come,” he said as he smiled. “Let us see what our new room looks like. I am shocked we have been given one for ourselves at all. Oh! I wonder if its beige…”

Alfred nodded, holding the cases and keeping quiet. He thought of all the candles and light sources and contraptions and technology he had used and seen across England during his stay here. He wondered where all the wax came from. Suddenly he felt queasy. The feeling easily mixed itself with his own sense of disbelief. How was that so easy? He just couldn’t believe it as he stepped onto the ship, hearing the creak of the boards as he stepped over them and the sigh from Arthur’s lungs as he laughed and spun on the ship, feeling at home in his most favorite domain in the whole world.

He smiled at Arthur. He looked like a blessed angel freed from a great and almighty dungeon of doom. So free now, so happy and free. He wished he could be like that forever.

“How did you do that?” He asked as he laughed as the man sauntered in the direction of the room they were told to go to.

“What, put up with that Scottish accent for so long without punching him in the face for sounding like Alasdair? I have no clue, my dear Alfred,” he chuckled, and he sounded like an angel too.

Alfred laughed again before responding. “No! I mean, how did we manage to get on a ship at all without anybody questioning us and turning us in?”

“Well,” he said as he led the way down a flight of stairs, “there was that one time where we had to give that seaman some lace on that herbal ship to shut him up from going to the authorities. Blasted moralist.”

They made it to the door described, and Arthur opened the little pigeonhole where they key laid, took it out and unlocked the door with it, shoving it open. “Ahh, from one room to another,” he rejoiced as he shuffled into the tight space with two tiny hammocks hanging in the center.

“I’m being serious,” Alfred prodded in a voice that didn’t sound that too serious. He put the bags down in the side of the room and Arthur closed the door, letting the significant shafts of sunlight come beaming down into the room from the little cracks of wood. God it smelt horrible in here. But then again, the repugnant smell of the whole ship made him want to vomit.

Arthur just shrugged as he leaned into one of the hammocks and smiled back at him. “Oh, he was an easy man to win over I suppose. An absolute pushover. But I guess he was not a bad man, either. He seemed very passionate about his job,” he chuckled. “Remember that welsh man we spoke to earlier today. Oh, he was the absolute opposite. I thought he was going to stab me instead.”

Alfred giggled. He could accept that answer. “I’m glad he didn’t,” he said as he smiled gratefully to God.

Arthur huffed at that, “I am glad too!” He looked up at the roof, thinking for a moment before continuing. “I assure you; he knew we were lying in some parts, telling half-truths and breaking laws. But he does not care because one; he knows he can profit from it and two; we seem pretty desperate for it, so whatever it is he thinks we are doing, I assure you he thinks he is helping us. The world is full of corruption, Alfred, if you wish to call it that. You are just too young to see it. But, eventually you will. Over time. It is only inevitable. People do anything for money, and I guarantee you we should be good for food. Ships always - and I mean _always -_ store extra food for the odd stop to meet up with and carry a couple of prostitutes. People will do anything for money or a good time. Plus they usually always store extra food on the ships for prostitutes anyway, so we will have enough food... Hah, those devious ladies always manage to find a way and sneak on board somehow. Always. Every bloody time. It is magic, I tell you. Those women are magic… They’re witches!”

Alfred just chuckled at that, and Arthur leaped up to playfully attack him with a little courageous roar, and begun tickling him with no mercy.

“Nay, Mr Kirkland! Why do you do this to me!” He yelped as he laughed, shuffling to get away as fast as he could. He managed to push him away, and he hopped onto his own old grey hammock for protection. He laughed again as he felt it creak and sway from under him.

“Hey, do you think these things will break while we sleep in them?” He asked.

“No,” Arthur replied dismissively. “But I do find it amusing we have gone from boring beige to gruesome grey.”

Alfred had to laugh at that too. “Oh, come on! I find beige to be calming and natural and homely.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Right.” He fell back into his own hammock, peeking over the fabric to look at Alfred as he sighed deeply.

“Corruption can come in many much worse ways than this,” he began judiciously. Alfred felt his breath hitch and he froze, stopping all movement right away. He said it so suddenly yet so sincerely, continuing on with such an honesty it made him cling on to every word. “I just hope… that when you are exposed to it all that it does not dissuade you from achieving great things. Some people do bad things, but many people do good things too. You will find in good time all people are capable of doing both great things and evil things. Reality is just far too complex for things like morality to be confined into the simplicity of a few earthly laws. That is why approaching the world with a certain set of principles in your mind matters so much. Because it is not the laws in themselves that count, but rather the ideas they are based upon. It’s the idea that counts, Alfred. And you cling on to it. And you never give up the fight. Because only then and there will you have the chance to make it a part of reality for you and your people. When you stand face-to-face up against this corrupt world you will eventually find that it is the only thing you have left. The hope you feel by clinging on and staying true to your own principles.”

Alfred nodded slowly as the words processed in his head, taking in what Arthur was saying with equal respect to its serious nature. He stayed silent as he wondered what other type of corruption was out there. Nothing else he could think of was worse than a King who thought it desirable to beat his own people. The thought of something else out there that could be more horrible than that frightened him.

He quickly shook the thought away. At least for now, he had his Magna Arthur right there beside him. The nation who made his heart leap up and his mind calm down. His home away from home, with hugs that rivaled against all fear. His great and almighty Arthur Kirkland, personification of the English people; _England_.

He smiled brightly as he started to swing his hammock, feeling giddy with the sudden joy in his heart. The hammock bumped into Arthur’s as it started gaining momentum, making the older one chuckle as he joined in on the fun and started swinging his as well. The uneasy creaks of the wooden boards above began to grow louder from all the force and pressure, yet it was all drown out and forgotten by the sound of their silly antics and loud laughter.

Yeah, with Arthur by his side - and all his wondrous ideals of rights and freedoms with individual liberties - he would never have to worry about losing hope to anything at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And off they sail!
> 
> whale oil used to be called 'train oil'... but i have no idea why...
> 
> If you're interested in the history of whaling in the UK, [The wikipedia article is a pretty good read.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Whaling_in_the_United_Kingdom)  
> All the facts about seamen conscription, lowering the amount of whaling ships after the 7 years war and London being the 'best lit city for twenty years' (from the 1740s to 'present day' or 1765) due to whale oil is all true. Also, I thought this was an excellent idea, because Newfoundland was one of the best places the people of the UK liked to hunt whales. Great mode of transport to get home!... minus the intensely fishy smell..
> 
> thanks for reading! :D


	8. The year was 1765

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **tw for mentions of violence/blood/etc !!! and panic attacks**

It started with rampant knocking, growing louder and louder with each enraged bang at the door. Alfred felt his mood change within an instant; from jolly laughter and frivolous fun to stunned silence and nervous curiosity. Arthur got up to answer it, letting him stay there as he approached the rattling door. Yet before he even had the chance to fully open it, a shouting match had begun. He didn't hear much of it, but he could feel the heat of the argument, as an eruption of anger and disputes exploded and boiled about into the room.

It took only a second afterwards for Arthur’s yelling to begin morphing into helpless begging, and Alfred felt himself tense up as an all-to-familiar feeling washed over him. He gripped his hands around the armrests of the old rickety wooden chair that he found himself seated in. He closed his eyes tight as the screaming and crying grew louder, and he bit his lip with such an intensity that tears ran down his face as he tried with no prevail to calm his whimpering wits.

He could almost hear that horrible man screaming the word – “what? _what!_ ” – again and again into his ears with no escape in sight, the sound of that infamous verbal tic that haunted his dreams and rattled him to the very core. The sudden shock forced him to open his eyes wide, yet his eyes still remained firmly locked into their place, unable to look up or anywhere else than the ground. The verbal abuse continued on and on and spun around all over and around his dizzy head. He couldn’t bring himself to move. He was frozen stiff, as still as a statue, and it shattered him so. How could he? How could he be so useless as to do nothing when the nation he loved most was getting teared up into shreds before him? He was so _useless_.

The metallic smell of blood filled the air. It was a melancholic sensation. Alfred’s sobbing grew more intense. It was unfair how frequently he was forced to smell it. Yet here he was, shackled down, held in this splintered chair once again. Unable to move or to cry for help. But who would help him but Arthur himself? And currently he was the target himself, not Alfred. How selfish of him to think he were the one in need of saving, and not Arthur.

A sea of red started to pour around on the ground before Alfred’s blurry vision. He could not see so clearly, yet he knew what it was. He knew what was happening again. He knew it all, and in that moment everything in his mind became crystal clear, no matter how many of his physical sensations may be distorted or nullified. The red sea began to swarm over him, and he could focus on nothing else other than the sheer horror that he would never be able to escape the sensation of drowning from under the boot of his ruling authorities.

But then the door suddenly slammed shut and everything exploded into grey again, as if Moses had thrown his fishing line into the mix, and all of the killer King’s fish along with the Red Sea itself had scattered in fear of his powers. All the blood had evaporated before him like magic, replaced with the wooden floorboards of the swaying ship they had been riding on for a couple of hours. He blinked a few times, removing the gunk in his eyes, and looked around, painting heavily as if he couldn’t believe what he had just seen. He felt his hands run across the rough fabric of the cheaply made hammock instead of any old wooden chair his deluded mind had thought it to be. It slowly rocked under him like a baby’s cot, connected in spirit with the river water, slowly soothing him as he came to his senses and regained his wits, recovering from a catatonic state.

He heard Arthur chuckle humorlessly and he looked up to see where he stood – right in front of the door, facing it with his forehead roasting upon it. He spun around on one heel like a real soldier man, showing off his amused yet piqued expression as he rolled his eyes and made his way back to his hammock own. He had no idea what Alfred had just seen.

“That was dear old Captain Dougal,” he began explaining, mocking the man by batting his eyelashes. “He wanted us to scrub the decks. I managed to convince him to postpone our little ‘payback duties’ until we have left the port behind with quite a distance. I am not in the mood to be spotted by any of the King’s men.” He scoffed into the fabric as he leaned into it, facing Alfred with a watchful eye. “He understood, luckily, but please be aware we still have to do that soon, most likely this afternoon.”

Alfred just sat there looking at him, shaking erratically. He tried to open his mouth to say something, but his throat had closed itself up. All that he could let out were a few quick huffs and a bleeding mouth. God, how hard had he bit his lip?

Arthur quickly picked himself up, leaning in to look at Alfred with an expression of great concern. “Are you all right?” He asked with a hand outstretched.

Alfred shoved his hand to the side, and tried to get up. He was all right. He was fine. He just didn’t understand what his mind was trying to show him. It was like he was going _mad_. But that only made all the more terrified of that that meant. He yelped out as his legs buckled from under him, the unevenness of the swaying ship aiding his already unstable balance and bringing him to collapse.

“Alfred!” Arthur cried out, reaching again to grab him and hold him upright.

He sat sprawled out on the wooden floor, helpless as the English nation held him together, unsure of what he had seen. Horrified from what had happened. Terrified of what it meant.

“I… I don’t know,” he began wailing. “I don’t know, Arthur…”

“Hey, it’s all right,” he tried to respond comfortingly, yet the shock was still evident in his voice. He begun to slowly pat Alfred’s hair, softly and soothingly.

“I don’t know what that was!” He cried out, “I don’t know what that was! I just saw it all, and… and there was blood, and I thought I heard _him_ and I panicked and… I don’t get it! I don’t get it! I just don’t get it!” His wails begun to grow more aggressive and short in nature. It became more and more apparent that his mind was simply playing cruel tricks on him. But that just left him livid that his own brain would betray him in such a way, for bringing him back _there_. The more he came to understand what had happened, the clearer his vision of the ship grew, the more his fear from the past turned into anger and resentment at himself for his stupid reactions.

Arthur tried his best to express his understanding, to hold his head and force him to look at him in the eyes, yet his efforts were in vain. All it did was confuse the unstable balance between Alfred’s thoughts and feeling even further. The idea of his current reality blurred with the past. Every physical sensation he felt was distant. It was like he wasn’t even in the same room as Arthur as the elder grabbed his arm and begged for him to come to his senses. Everything outside his mind felt one step out of place. Nothing felt _real_ anymore. It was if a wall had been built between him and reality. He tried his best to bash at it, to scream and cry and hold Arthur tight, but his body didn’t move. His nerves buzzed through his body. His heart pounded and his blood pulsed through his faraway body. It all felt otherworldly. He was lost.

“You’re safe here. You’re safe here now, with me! You were just… trapped in your own thoughts,” he heard Arthur stumble from across the other side of the world. The poor nation sounded like he was worrying himself well into ill health. He brushed Alfred’s hair back and tripped and fumbled to get his attention back. “You’re here! You’re here with me! Please don’t forget that.”

“I don’t understand,” Alfred cried out in agony, a little bit of feeling bursting past that horrible wall; the hot seeming rage of fresh betrayal. He couldn’t understand why his mind would ever play such an evil trick on him. Why would it want to take him back _there_? And why now, of all times? People had thought him possessed before. He had been beaten and starved and nearly killed by those who thought of him a witch. He was familiar with the feeling of hot fire in his gut as his body cried for more food. The lashings and sharp tips of a whip against his skin. He had experienced pain before, and it was horrifying. Yet those experiences never haunted his dreams and thoughts with such realism. Something to the likes of that had never happened to him before.

“That’s never happened to me before!” he spat out in anger, wallowing away and failing his arms around like a little toddler whinging about on the floor. He couldn’t take it. He couldn’t understand it. What made this different? What made the King’s beatings and whips and stabbings and burns so different to that of his own townspeople? Why did the King leave a scar, but they did not?

“Why now?” He felt so confused, so lost and helpless. He was fine when they ran out into the woods together. He was fine while they ran away. He was fine as they slept on the ground in that cramped little shed together. No dreams or tricks had haunted him there. But now he suddenly wasn’t fine. Now, when they were finally on a ship, heading home, when they were finally starting to settle down and find peace. He thought he finally felt secure. So why now? Why did his mind decide to attack him now? Why so suddenly? He just couldn’t understand it, and it all made him so, so scared. So terrified. So lost.

“That’s never happened to me before,” he repeated, much quieter, sounding completely defeated. His anger had dissipated, replaced instead with a sense of absolute dread and hollow anguish. His will to move or kick or scream out had been mushed to bits and quickly dissipated. It took him a good while to realize Arthur was still beside him, hushing him and holding onto him tenderly.

“Alfred, listen to me,” he whispered as he held his head in his hands, turning his face so he was forced to look into his eyes. “The human mind is so complex, filled up with memory upon memory, reactions to the past, misunderstandings and hallucinations. Yet they are people who can only live up to one hundred years. But us,” he swallowed. “We live for centuries. We are supernatural, near immortal. But we’re not immortals. In our souls, we are the same as our people, our humans. In that sense, we are just like them. We are cursed with the big hearts and limited minds of humans, and we find our brains are the same size as theirs. We are given no extra space in our heads to process the centuries of strange things that we see. So sometimes... our brains make crazy mistakes, _mad mistakes_ , and we see them and feel frightening things at random times that make no proper sense and that can terrify us dearly. But... just keep in mind that even the human mind will make crazy mistakes when it finds itself in unthinkable situations, any they only live such short lives. They can only feel and see so much before they die!” He sounded desperate, as if it caused him pain to see Alfred in such a way. It made him feel guilty, yet all that he could do in response at the time was listen and hope that the things he was saying to him were true.

“But just…” He let out a deep breath, suddenly sounding much older than nineteen. But then again, he was far older than anybody his age appearance could ever begin to understand. “Just know that it is never your fault. No matter how your brain chooses to process your life, it is not your fault. Please, do not be angry at yourself. I used to always be angry at myself for it. All it did was cause me misery. It is not the path to go. It is not something you can control, so let it be and forgive yourself... Please, Alfred, forgive yourself. Because then and only then will you find yourself beginning to heal from it all.”

Alfred didn’t know how he did it, but it felt like with those soft sounding words and hypnotic green eyes, that Arthur had managed to slowly but surely tear down that wall before him brick by brick. He had to forgive himself. He felt a bittersweet tear fall down his cheek. It was going to take time, and be hard as hell, but when Arthur’s beautiful bright eyes bore straight into him in all their green glory, he just knew he had to try. There was nothing on the Earth more enchanting than those eyes. They were so full of concern, and attentiveness, and boundless affection for him that it finally moved him to have hope again. It made the King all the more criminal to Alfred for ever laying a hand on them.

He looked down at his hands and took in a deep breath. He felt so sickened as the feeling of it all dawned on him. He felt guilt. The memories of it all haunted him because he felt guilt about it. He felt guilty for just sitting there and watching that happen to Arthur. He felt guilty for just standing by as that man hurt him like that. He felt guilty for needing any protection in the first place. But most of all, he felt guilty for dragging him into the whole Richmond Lodge situation to begin with for being the host country of that retched war from two years ago.

“Ugh,” he moaned out finally, letting the walls completely crumble around him as he reached up to cup his hands over Arthur’s, which still remained on his cheeks. “I feel like… Lady Macbeth.”

Arthur chuckled kindly, relieved and relaxed as he held him. God, they had been holding onto each other so much the mast few days. “I wonder if I should have ever taught you that play,” he added cheekily.

Alfred almost laughed. Everything about the past few events always seemed to come back to her, in his mind. Maybe it was because she was from the very first Shakespearean play Arthur had ever taught him. She was memorable, a character he himself had played again and again within the walls of their little beige room together to pass the time and find new entertainment. They would always try to find new and eccentric ways to make the short theater experience work with only a two-man crew. It was their fun, their little escape, the last little bit of freedom they had left to express themselves.

“I was always Lady Macbeth,” he whispered with a small smile as the memories of the two of them dancing and singing around the room resurfaced. Arthur taught him many plays after that one, and every now and again they would perform them before the servants’ table, yet after every new one he would always beg to go back to the good old Scottish tragedy.

He was always so deliriously excited to be Lady Macbeth. Because that meant he would be seen by the audience, just for a short amount of time, as Arthur’s lady. The idea of it all simply took his breath away. He couldn’t care less that the title was feminine, the prospect of merely being his partner at all was just too enthralling. Enjoying the feeling of being his spouse, even in the context of a make-believe play, was the only thing that kept him going at times. But the shame of it also nagged at the back of his head, an outraged voice crying out that he should not feel that way at all.

“Yes, you were,” Arthur hummed nostalgically, letting his mind wander off and walk through the forest of memories as well. “You know, I’ve always seen men play her in either one of two different ways. One; she is made into a schemer, a cunning witch who is willing to kill to soothe her greed and lust for power. Or two; she would be presented as the devoted lover of her husband, encouraging him to go forward with the act of betraying the King because she wants to see him thrive, and she chooses what she thinks is best for him. Treason. You always played her in that way, I noticed.”

Alfred frowned deeply, sad at the thought. She sounded almost exactly like him, in that context. “I guess we are the same then,” he whispered sadly sad. It would make sense. They both felt guilt for what they had done, or in turn, what they were unable to do. She got an unhappy ending. He wondered if they would as well.

“Oh, no you’re not,” Arthur scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. You are far off from her.”

Alfred shook his head. “I’m not sure about –”

“She is different, Alfred,” he prodded on, sounding final in his decision.

“But you said so yourself we’ve committed acts of treason!” Alfred couldn’t believe him. What a hypocrite, or at least a man who spoke in tongues. How the hell were they different? “She got an unhappy ending after it all and we will too!” He nearly cried at the realization. God always picked on traitors. How naive to think he would be left alone from this. Kingship was a divinely given right, after all. Right? _Right_?

Arthur hushed him again with a firm and clear voice. “Oh, don’t be silly. She lusted after the throne for her and her husband only. Her motives were for them to obtain a position of power over others, Alfred. You, on the other hand, wanted freedom. You wanted to regain your own power over yourself, and my power over to me. What you fought for was the good old right of an Englishman. That is fundamentally different, something you cannot compare.”

Alfred fell silent. He had no idea what his argument was anymore. He suddenly felt tired of it all. But then, when has he not been tired the last few months? The strain of all the stress had been draining him out for far too long.

“We’re never gonna get a happy ending, are we?” He whispered, heartbroken. All of those little fairy tales, all those stories that Arthur used to tell him, either from real battle victories or stories written for children. They all ended up happy. But the only character he ever felt attached to now was that woman with a wicked ending. He wondered if it was fate.

“No, Alfred.” Arthur began rocking him in his arms. It felt like they were swinging and playing in their hammock again. “We will. We will find our own happy ending, one day. I will not rest until we do, I promise you.”

Alfred shifted up to look at him. He sure hoped he was good at keeping promises, but as he watched the glimmer in his eyes, he could feel nothing but confidence in the investment of such a will. His sureness soothed his unsteady nerves back into calm tranquil. He looked so beautiful, so elegant, strong in both will and might. Alfred wondered how he managed all the stress and abuse of nationhood with such a young body.

“How do you deal with it?” He said under his breath. He was both mesmerized yet genuinely curious at the same time. “How do you manage to move on after all that time in the Lodge?”

Arthur repositioned himself, thinking of his response to the question. He thought for a while, shifting around again and again, clearly thinking for the correct response, before his eyebrows furrowed in determination and he settled his final approach.

“You know, people don’t speak ill of him now because he lives.” Oh. Alfred had heard this talk from Arthur before. He remembered recalling it, first hearing the draft of it months ago, whispered to him while sitting at the servants’ table. It was after the King had thrown a book at him, hitting him straight in the shoulder blade, causing a bruise that mellowed and wallowed away on his skin for what felt like forever. He looked down at his hands and fumbled with them. That was so early on in this whole debacle. He could nearly laugh at himself for thinking that was the worst it could get at the time.

“When he finally perishes,” Arthur continued, “I know the people will spread their stories, and rumors will rummage the streets. His staff and servants will not stay quiet forever. For now, it is too dangerous, but when he dies it is free range. The common people do not know his true character, his charter, his motives. But when he dies, they will know. The truth will finally reveal itself and that, my dear Alfred, will be my consolation. That will be our revenge. That will be when it will improve for us, mark my words, my dear Jones boy.”

Alfred felt helpless. “I don’t think I can – ”

“Mark them, Alfred.” He demanded firmly, yet fretfully. “Promise me that you will find your peace in knowing the truth is out there.”

It took a moment of silence before Alfred finally answered him. His emerald eyes enraptured his heart, and captivated his senses, filling him with an almost profane sense of hope. How love could make one go crazy. “All right then,” he smiled softly in his arms. He had no idea why he caved in. Promises were so hard to keep, especially between two personifications. He sure hoped he could keep it, just for the sake of Arthur. “I mark ya words.”

Arthur smiled right back at him, and he couldn’t help but gleam in response, showing off a big toothy smile and giggling at his charming face. His smile always made him feel like he was gliding alongside the fluffiest and freest of clouds.

“Who knows,” Arthur chuckled. “Maybe sometime in the future, we can come back to find ourselves in the welcome arms of a true King or Queen. Then we can leave all of this behind us.”

Alfred hummed non-compliantly, “you say that a lot.”

“Because I mean it. I want to show you true leadership one day. Maybe then we can have our happy ending that… _you_ deserve.”

Alfred stayed silent, looking up at the wooden rooftop of their little grey room. Arthur was well-meaning, his last words captivating his heart, even. Yet something still irked him about the part before it. What the hell was ‘true leadership’ supposed to be, anyway? A true leader was to be a King chosen by God, apparently. But according to the divine right of Kings, which he was beginning to grow more and more suspicious of, all Kings have been chosen by the divine to rule. That would mean God would be responsible for all the tyrants of the world. How could that be true? Why make a man King if his subjects would just end up running away from him?

It never really made much sense to him, no matter how hard he thought about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jeepers creepers, this took me a while to get through. but it was kinda therapeutic too.  
> i hope the pacing isn't too whack for anybody... oh well, i tried.
> 
> From [Wikipedia](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lady_Macbeth) ;  
> "Lady Macbeth is a leading character in William Shakespeare's tragedy Macbeth. The wife of the play's tragic hero, Macbeth, Lady Macbeth goads her husband into committing regicide, after which she becomes queen of Scotland. She dies off-stage in the last act, an apparent suicide."


	9. The year was 1765

The afternoon air blew around Alfred’s golden locks as he watched the port grow more and more distant. He sighed as he watched it all disappear, leaning into the fencing at the edge of the deck as the ship’s rocking began to really pick up.

He was feeling better than before, grateful that Arthur had convinced him to get out of that little waiting room earlier than necessary, letting them stand out on the top deck and open air as they waited for the work they were ordered to do. The sky, for once, was visible above the land of London, showing off its soft blue hues, preparing itself for the orange of the evening. It looked far more beautiful than the wooden roof of their temporary accommodation.

Despite the surrounding beautiful sights, the atmosphere around him still remained melancholic. He felt disappointed even, which surprised him. He thought he would be more ecstatic to watch them leave England. It meant they were one step closer to seeing his real home, his land, his people, and sweet little Matthew once more. Yet he doubted he could regain that feeling anytime soon. The sheer exhaustion from reflecting on the past few events had beaten him down a few too many times than he could take, and the steady swaying of the ship and its putrid fishy stink did nothing to help his situation.

“Ugh. I feel like I’m going to vomit,” he moaned as he hunched over, clinging to the rail with one arm as he held his stomach in the other. Maybe getting some outside air from the top deck wasn’t such a good idea after all. All it did was add a reference point to how intense the waves were starting to become.

“If you must, please do so overboard,” Arthur said curtly, leaning heavily on the railing next to him, not once breaking eye contact with the disappearing horizon of his age-old London city, “and make sure none of the crew see you.”

“I’m going to cry!” he whimpered, unsatisfied with his brutal and blunt reaction.

“How is it then that you were so completely fine on our boat ride here while it was storming so hard it was as if somebody upstairs wished us dead,” he scoffed, aggravated by his supposed childishness.

“No, no. This is different. It’s the smell that’s really taking me down!” He lowered himself down further to the ground, feeling like he could melt into a giant puddle of mushy goo and never recover.

Arthur rolled his eyes at his dramatic show as he mumbled aggressively, “I should be the one losing energy, not you. I am the one leaving my homeland.”

He felt his stomach drop even further, this time from the dread of Arthur’s pain rather than the stink of the ship. The acute awareness of what he must have been feeling stabbed him like a sharp knife. He watched Arthur’s face intently. He hadn’t noticed it before, but now it was evident. That radiant nationhood glow from his body was disappearing. They were leaving the British Isles, and it was taking an almighty toll on England’s frail young body. He wondered how much of a toll it took on his spirit as well.

It must have felt God awful. His whole miserable demeanor was heavy enough to sink the entire ship right then and there. His eyelids hung low, his frown ran deep, and his skin had paled to an even ghostlier and sickly shade of white that Alfred had never seen him in before. Alfred had not noticed it until now, but he was absolutely ghastly to look at, and it made his heart ache and his chest tighten to see him in such a suddenly sickened way. He wondered if he himself had looked the same when they left the New World by the King’s orders all those months ago.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered as he looked out in view of the slowly dimming ocean horizon. The all too familiar sense of guilt began to creep up on him again, and it nearly took all his willpower to stop himself from just screaming at it to go away. He was just too exhausted to deal with it anymore.

“Whatever for?” Arthur asked quietly, softly, tenderly, mellowly. Alfred didn’t know if he was trying to sound attentive or he was just hearing things. Maybe he was just too tired to express any strong emotions anymore, like himself.

He let out a long, slow exhale before his eventual answer. “For taking you away from your home,” he said in a hushed voice. The heartache of leaving his own home was too much to bear. He could never even let himself remember it. Sometimes the memory of him kicking and screaming, scratching at the guard on their front porch would resurface, but he would quickly bury them out of fear of the pain they would cause. He felt guilty for never considering how leaving now would make Arthur feel.

“I am all right,” Arthur finally looked at him, flashing him with a small simple smile just for a quick second. He shrugged lightly and playfully, and Alfred knew then he was telling the truth. “These are just some easy withdrawal symptoms to deal with. Remember I feel this every time I leave to go off sailing into the great and wild world.”

Alfred smiled softly at his robust outlook. He always seemed to have a stiff upper lip when it came to physical hardships.

“Besides,” he added on, chuckling. “Every nation has to go through it. What am I to do if I let it get to me? I am the one who rules the waves, after all. Rule Britannia, let her son be gentleman of the high seas!”

Alfred rolled his eyes contemptuously. Sometimes he could be so full of himself. But he was also right. He had to have a stiff upper lip if he really wanted to be the one to rule the waves. Alfred had faith that he could do it. He felt a wave of pride himself for the one he loved. He was the great and almighty Magna Arthur, after all! But not really a gentleman, though…

“Hey, I remember you screaming some pretty scandalous and rather profane things at that man who took us out of our house back when we were forced to come here. That wasn’t very gentlemanly,” he said with a little giggle.

Arthur huffed and stuck his nose in the air. “But did you see the way he was grabbing you? It was completely unacceptable behaviour for one of my officers.”

Alfred continued to poke the bear, enjoying how much Arthur was defending him. “Well, I was acting hysterical instead of just following him into the carriage like a peaceful young man,” he said mockingly, excitement and playful laughter buzzing through his body as he continued to prod him on, almost desperate to hear more.

“Because you were scared of leaving your home!” Arthur managed to shut him up and made his case final, hushing the other with a swift hand gesture of silence. He was clearly sick of hearing about it. That just made Alfred enjoy the teasing even more.

“But I suppose it is now my turn to leave home now,” Arthur added on with an unexpected chuckle and a contented sigh. He wondered if Arthur secretly liked it too, the thought making his heart race. “I guess I now know how you felt back in July. However, when we arrive back there, the seasons will have changed quite drastically. I find myself looking forward to it. Autumn can be quite a charming season to walk into.”

He smiled brightly at Alfred, warming his heart with how well he was managing losing that supernatural glow in his skin. The longer he looked the more he noticed that the English nation never even needed that extra boost. He was stunning the way he was, and he was recovering from the withdrawal as quick as ever. Alfred was about to say something in agreement before his expression suddenly turned cold and his smiled transformed into a deeply concerned frown.

“Wait,” Arthur said harshly, sounding suspicious even. “Is it even whaling season?”

Alfred stood back, shocked and frightened over the sudden idea that they’ve been lied to. He didn’t say anything as Arthur continued.

“No,” he hissed. “No, it’s not. It ended in September… this is late October.” He snapped his posture upright, ridged and angry, as he begun to walk with purpose around the ship, like a shark swimming around waiting for his next victim. He took charge and made his way around, leaving all who were too slow to follow him in the dust.

Alfred, still in shock, hurried as fast as he could from behind him, struggling to make up for the loss of time from his sudden shock and catch up to him, all while his mind scattered and scrambled to try and make some sense of it all. He stumbled past a couple men chatting about something, rigging maybe, before finally catching up to him enough to be in ear shot.

“Wait, Arthur,” he called out desperately, trying to get him to slow down. They were far away from where they were standing before, the place they were supposed to meet the sailor who would give them scrubbing supplies. “Maybe they just had a really long season this year…”

“No,” he shushed him as he continued on walking. “It’s been too long now. Whale oil has a short shell life, also. It’s not that.” His voice was curt, sharp, to the point. Bitchy almost. It made Alfred feel tense and anxious about how this argument was going to end before it even had begun. But as he wandered, wasting his time by wondering, Arthur managed to slip away and disappear into the sea of sailors yet again.

Alfred cursed out loud as he managed to sway and shift past a few other men before a clearing finally opened up at the end. It was there that finally came into full view of the Captain, looking down at Arthur with an expression of amusement as the latter yelled and gestured at him accusingly. He slowly approached the two of them, on guard the whole time, nerves flashing and pulsing as he was slowly sucked into the hostile conversation.

“ – are you actually trading?” He heard Arthur cry out before he began listing a long line of interrogation questions, all methodically queued up to deliver sharp and cunning verbal blows to his newfound foe. The anger in his voice almost frightened Alfred, yet as he continued to observe the situation, he noticed that it did not at all harm the superficially dressed Scotsman.

Captain Dougal actually managed to laugh in response, seemingly having the time of his life rather than take any offense. “Calm down,” he said through his gleefully bared teeth. He held his hands out before his chest just to lower them down horizontally at waist height, as if he were trying to tame a baby or even a wild animal. It did nothing but make Arthur look more red. “As far as the government is concerned, we’re just gathering more train oil and I’d like to keep it that way. We’re not doing anybody any harm here, so I would advise you to just keep your mouth shut and enjoy the ride.”

“No,” Arthur rebutted harshly. He sounded like he thought he had some sort of authority over the man on his own ship. Alfred didn’t like where this was going. “I want to know exactly what you are doing.”

“I believe that to be none of your business, Englishman,” he spat the word out like an insult. Arthur just tsked.

“How could it ever harm you to tell me what is really on this ship? I think it is very clear between us that you know we are fugitives by now,” he flung his hand in show of Alfred to prove his point. He finally took the hint and attempted to humble himself, sounding more genuine as he continued, “I cannot afford to break faith with you. You should know that. Why not just tell me?”

Captain Dougal shook his head carelessly. “We have nothing illegal. Just the normal produce as ever. Food, tools, clothes, see? All that’s wrong with it is that none of it’s been taxed.”

Alfred didn’t know what type of noise Arthur made, but it sure made him look and sound like a boiling kettle. “What the bloody hell do you mean its not taxed?” He hissed, red faced. He looked royally pissed, like we were about to explode. “We just fought in a bloody war! The British Government’s penniless! We need that money to function!”

The Captain scoffed as he turned away for a split second before looking back at the two of them with fiery eyes. “You think that money really goes back to the people?” God, the man sounded downright livid now. “No, the King just keeps it! He keeps it for his wee little self! He never gives back to the people, the selfish _bastard_. So why should we give to him? He would take this very ship as well if we left it in London for any longer than we did, and then all my men would be conscripted as well. But like hell any of my boys are fighting for the English.” He spat the words out like venom, huffing and puffing. That superficial long coat look he wore so uncomfortably began to fray as little strands of wild curly hair sprung loose. “Like hell any of my _men_ are. Nah, I’m protecting my people, that’s what I’m doing… Are you satisfied now?”

Alfred stood stuck between the both of them, keeping silent as he found himself agreeing with the frazzled Captain. Why should he have to give his heart and soul to somebody who would only ever take and crave for more rather than ever give back?

He looked back at Arthur, who was positively furious, holding his mouth shut in a tight line. He clearly wasn’t convinced. Alfred bit his lip as he reached out and put a hand on his shoulder, as if to say – no, to beg – _please, let’s just drop this._ England looked back at him from the corner of his eye, and he really was England at that moment, not Arthur. Just a nation desperate to cling onto the power and influence he had been promised by his every growing empire that he will never see due to the curse of personification animosity. 

His forlorn eyes shocked Alfred, and his hand dropped from his shoulder in an instant. But then Arthur blinked it all away, and he was back immediately. Alfred couldn’t help but feel a wave of relief rush over him as he wondered how the Captain would ever react to seeing such nonhuman eyes for even a second. With a small and polite smile, _Arthur_ nodded respectfully to the Captain, effectively stepping down from the argument and restoring civilities between the two.

Dougal still eyed him suspiciously, yet one could see him call off the duel he was planning in his mind. When he spoke again, it was in a hefty Scottish accent. “I let you on board with the grace of my own heart. Don’t make me regret it. Go off and scrub the deck I told you to do ages ago.”

Arthur quickly pulled himself together, almost smirking as he said compellingly, “I must say, it is quite rare to receive direct orders from the Captain himself to scrub a deck.”

It sounded like an effort to break the ice, but damn, to Alfred that ice felt mighty thin. He bit his lip and looked up nervously to the Captain, yet, much to Alfred’s relief, he seemed to have taken it with a hint of humor. Alfred thanked God; the ice appeared to have not cracked. It remained deep and think and easy to skate on. He watched with en elated heart as the Captain begun to relax himself in their presence again. It seemed any hostilities between them were quickly forgotten.

“You two are a curious case,” the Scotsman almost chuckled. It was as if they had never argued. “I admit, I’m fascinated by you. What are your names, anyway?”

Alfred felt himself locked up abruptly. Why would he need to ask that? Maybe he hadn’t forgiven them for Arthur’s invasive outburst. Would he document them? Sell them out at the next port?

Arthur was one step ahead of him, however, answering swiftly and with great ease, almost annoyed in his tone of voice, “I’m Edward. He’s Harry.” Alfred blinked. He did not feel like a Harry.

Dougal laughed at that, “oh, please, they’re not your real names, are they?”

“No,” Arthur played along with an expressionless face. “One of us is actually an Albert,” he added monotonously.

Dougal huffed, seemingly satisfied with his answer, “Aye.” And with that, the conversation was over. He waved them away, sending them off to gather their equipment, seemingly with no hard feelings about them at all.

Alfred wanted to be angry, to yell at Arthur, even. To scream at him for putting them at possible risk for stupid and aggressive impulsive reasons. But he couldn’t find himself mad, at least not for too long. He had no idea if that was love or exhaustion. He just hoped that they could take the man at face value, and not find themselves entrapped within some elaborate plan of his to take them back ashore for profit.

It took them a while to gather all the equipment, going from one station to another and grabbing buckets and soaps and cleaning rags. Eventually, they found all they needed, and made their way back to the original spot they were supposed to be standing, only to find out that everything had already been put down there for them by other sailors while they were gone.

The two just looked at each other, watching in absolute awe at the mountain of supplies they had been greeted with. One by one they started to drop their buckets and blankets over the deck, just standing there idly as they watched and investigated the pile of supplies that looked heaps more appealing and useful than the mix-match bundle of sticks they had managed to gather.

“Well, shit,” Alfred broke the silence with a whistle. “That’s one hell of a way to waste our damn time.”

Arthur held a hand to his mouth as he just looked back at him, his eyes looking so comedically done with life that Alfred couldn’t help but let out a little disbelieving laugh.

“Why didn’t they just bloody do it themselves then?” Arthur finally cried out, letting out all his frustration. “They have a ton more money now they’ve dodged their taxes!”

Alfred winced as he kicked an empty bucket over, still laughing from the shock. The whole conversation was crazy, he had no idea what to think of it. He eventually found something to settle on. “Harry? Do I look like a harry to you?” He asked. It just sounded so weird to him, the only thing he could think of saying.

Arthur turned to look at him, and he just stood there watching him for a while. Perhaps a little too long for comfort. He looked slightly angry, yet also amused at the same time. He hummed before saying, “no. But it is possible that I am just biased. I have always known you as Albert, if I remember your name correctly.”

Alfred gasped. What a sly bastard he was!

“But who knows,” he continued on with a cocky grin. Oh boy, he was enjoying himself far too much. “I think my memory fails me frequently…” He sounded humorous yet humorless, belittling himself just as much as his companion. Alfred didn’t realize that the whole shed thing had gotten to him like it did, nor did he realize how worried he was about the state of his national security after the war. He seemed worried about everything. All that repressed anger and frustration and worry, and all that time he had been attending to Alfred’s needs and keeping him first! Alfred wondered for how he had been doing this without him even noticing, and all of a sudden he felt so stupidly selfish.

“Hey,” he whispered quietly before grabbing the frazzled nation’s hand and squeezing it softly before letting it go. He just wanted to give back to him for once. “You can sit this one out if you want, I’ll clean the deck myself.”

“No,” Arthur shook his head, but the look in his eyes show that he was deeply moved by his caring offer. With a sweet smile and a deep breath, he seemed to just let it all go with an exhale. Or, Alfred didn’t know if he was letting go or just repressing it all again. He couldn’t tell. Still it was clear that Arthur was beginning to mellow out, “I will go barking mad if I have to watch one more person do the work I am supposed to do.”

“I don’t get what you mean,” he said gently, nudging on Arthur to explain himself better. He just wanted to understand him. He wanted to help him.

But all Arthur did was grab some supplies and start to sweep and scrub all the ugly green fungus that grew along the railing edges. The physical labor seemed to make him ease himself from the pressure, and he begun to move along with the scrubbing brush with a small smile on his face, making a small rhythm for himself as he hummed a little drinking song.

He turned back to look at Alfred and sighed before finally explaining, “we were supposed to be working around the Lodge, you know. Direct orders from the King, just like the direct orders we got from good old Dougal over there,” He huffed as he pointed to nowhere in particular. “Mr Phillips was going to plan a schedule for us, but Mrs Porter stopped him. She doted on us, you know. She wouldn’t let us work. What a mother hen she was,” he sounded almost nostalgic.

“Wait, we were supposed to work there?” Alfred asked quizzically. He never knew that.

“Of course, why else would we be told to sit at the servants' table? We were just servants in their eyes.”

Alfred couldn’t help but feel anguished over the new news. All that he was to a servant? To whom, the King? Just some servant? He knew he was a _subject_ of the monarchy, but a _servant?_ He felt his face form a scowl as he angrily wiped his eyes, feeling his resentment for kingship growing and growing by the second.

He grabbed a bucket angrily and swung it around, unaware of its contents and dropping it for its sudden and unexpected weight. Water splashed all out the bucket as it toppled over onto his clothes and arms, and he whined out in frustration.

Sudden memories of having boiling water thrown at him for saying something stupid, and taking back and stepping out of line and whatever that man’s excuse was that time or that time or that time flooded through his mind as his clothes stayed drenched, weighing him down and covering him with the sickening feeling of disgust and resentment. He remembered how long the blisters along his arms had lasted, and how painful they felt. And that was the man he was supposed to serve as a _servant?_ He flicked his arms to get the water off him as Arthur rushed to get some clean cloths for him to dry himself.

Alfred frowned as angry tears started to form around his eyes, and he cursed himself for how stupid he was being. God, how his emotions fluctuated. It was like one moment he was elated the next he was just so angry, and whenever he was happy Arthur would be sad and whenever Arthur was happy he would be sad!

He aggressively wiped his arms with the towel Arthur handed him and he leaned down to start his commanded duty of scrubbing the damn decks to death with a tiny little bristly brush. He would worry about his wet clothes later, for now he just needed to distract himself. He looked over his shoulder to see Arthur still looking at him with concern on his face. He didn’t know what else to say to him, but he felt like he needed to break the silence somehow.

“How long is this trip gonna last us?” He finally managed to ask. He just couldn’t wait to go home.

Arthur blinked a few times before getting back to scrubbing, saying, “about three weeks at best, and that is if we are lucky.”

He paused for a split second before continuing. That was confusing. “But it only took a week and a half for us to get here…”

Arthur let out a cautious chuckle, “well, yes it did. But the current and the winds always head east this high up on the earth’s latitude. We are heading west, so it will take us a little bit longer. You would also have to consider the size of the ship, how much it weighs, but overall I am expecting us to arrive in a little over a month and a half. That is, given the current is kind to us and the wind is fair. Then we may finally rest, free and assured we are on the ground at last, and eventually with Matthew.”

There was something so tender in his voice, so sweet and hopeful, that any anger in Alfred’s heart quickly dissipated, replaced with the feeling of him leaping and bounding across cupid’s clouds.

“Oh,” he hushed in breathless admiration. He couldn’t help but let a little smile form on his face, “You’re really smart, Arthur.”

He giggled for a bit as he heard Arthur stutter, trying to bring some balance back into the conversation by adding reason, “well what do you expect? I am a sailor, and a good one. I have to know this stuff!”

Alfred just laughed louder as he continued to scrub away the all grime on the ground. It reminded him, for the final time hopefully, of Lady Macbeth and her obsession with cleaning out damned spots. However this time he felt confident, that maybe, just maybe, this could be the last time he would compare himself to her.

Because, as Arthur said before, what happened to him was not his fault, and now, they were going _home_. They really were on their way to go _home_. They had bypassed London, and were heading straight to Newfoundland onboard a ship filled with men who hated the British Government, leaving them free from the worry of being turned in. There was nothing stopping them on their way back home, now they had finally left the port. They had left the Lodge for good; it was far away in the distance now, and it was about time to start letting it go.

He nodded to himself as he started to scrub the brush harder while kneeling alongside Arthur. And with each scrub he found himself feeling better, more confident, more lively, as if every single rung on that railing he cleaned was all but another slippery step closer to the hope of healing himself. Bit by bit - with Arthur by his side, he could make anything work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just cannot wait for these two idiots to get off the dang boat  
> there's a war to be had, y'all!


	10. The year was 1765

The weeks flew by in rapid pace. The events all became a blur for Alfred, but what he did notice was the changes within himself. Over time he forgot about the stink and the swaying of the ship. Instead, he found that he was getting more and more powerful as the distance between him and his land shrunk smaller and smaller. They were fed well, and were invited to watch entertainment. Arthur had noticed his eyes glowing brighter, jokingly telling him they could rival the greatest of stars the heavens had to offer. He took the compliment as gospel, feeling better than ever. It was like the heavy weight and pressure on his chest had finally been lifted after months of backbreaking labor. He was as light as a feather, yet he felt strong and sturdy on his own two feet. He was like a bird, he could fly – like he was free! – and he knew he was always safe to come down, because Arthur always grounded him.

The times that he did remember where when he would be standing up on the top deck alongside Arthur, watching the sun with him as it fell back into the shoreline, preparing for its daily nap. He remembered what Arthur had said to him one time, “if it were up to me, I would have it so the sun could never set. It would just remain like that in the air all day, with all its orange hues on display for the world to see. Nothing could ever be as beautiful as the sun just before it sets on the ocean shore.”

Alfred kept quiet, amusing himself by thinking of one thing he found far more beautiful than the sunset, something that he could never tell anybody out loud. Arthur’s green eyes when they sparkled like that, looking at something he found so beautiful in wonder – they were more beautiful to him. Their green; the color of morning due on a fresh pile of leaves, one of the first signs of a new season’s beginning, or even the heads of the tallest trees that stood deep within an enchanted forest filled with fairies. The color of nature and magic blended. They reminded Alfred of vitality and rejuvenation, a symbol of their fresh start and a new life back home in the Americas. They were what gave him hope.

The ship eventually docked in Newfoundland, and they parted ways with the many sailors they had cultivated an acquaintanceship with. Deals were made, valuable fabrics were traded in exchange for the journey, and farewells were all said with good will. New ships were boarded, countless landscapes came and went, and many people were kind enough to let them tag along in their carriages and on their horses for free. However, eventually their supplies of trade dwindled down to just two.

They stood at the back of the final carriage, debating their last choices. The driver sat in the front, telling them he would wait there until they made their decision to ride or not. Arthur held one of the two fabrics in the palm of each hand, showing them to Alfred as they spoke to each other in hushed voices. The cases they had used to carry their once abundant supply were taken fancy by a merchant a couple of rides back, and were long gone with other men now. All they had left were the dirty clothes on their backs and those two fabrics, the ones from Belgium and England’s most beloved Queen. Both were countless in their monetary worth, being able to feed an entire family for a lengthy amount of time. Either that, or they were just nifty to have as household items. Their last ride home depended on giving one of them away, which led to a dilemma within Arthur’s heart.

“Hand over Belgium’s one,” Alfred said as kindly as he could. The anticipation of finally arriving back at his old house was making him hastier than he would have liked. “I think that’s the best choice.”

“No, I couldn’t,” Arthur hugged it closer to his chest. “This was a gift!”

“But if she’s your friend, then she would understand the situation. She can just make you another one. Elizabeth, on the other hand…” He bit his lip, unsure how he should word it. He tried to sound as sensitive as possible. “She’s dead. You can’t get her gift back after it’s gone.”

Arthur sighed as he hugged it tighter. He locked eyes with Alfred, and the sorrow in his expression was palpable. It pained him to see it – but he seemed to understand. He nodded reluctantly before miserably moaning, “this is very impolite, throwing away a lady’s gift.”

The man accepted their trade with a courteous nod, and they were off to continue their journey. Arthur clung onto Good Queen Bess’ last memento like it were a Holy Bible throughout the entire ride, and Alfred tried his best to comfort him for his loss.

He grew more and more eager as he began noticing little geographical locations and building, excitedly pointing them out to Arthur and telling little storied about the town to their human companion during their travels. Arthur’s mood slowly picked up, and he caught him smiling ever so slightly at his jokes every once and a while, bringing him the greatest joy he had ever felt.

In due time, they reached the part where their two paths diverged, and they hopped off the carriage, saying goodbye to their lift, and making their way down the long private dirt road that led up to Matthew’s house. All they had left to do was prey that he still chose to live there after they were taken away all those months ago.

Their walk was quiet and humble, calm and sweet. All haste he had felt before had left him, and now the end goal was in clear view he could do nothing but relax and find himself at ease. He closed his eyes, allowing himself to go into meditative state as he continued to stride alongside Arthur.

He hadn’t been able to do a nation’s meditation in so long. Although he was not a nation himself – he was but a bunch of colonies – he could still find himself doing it, and he supposed that all other personifications, no matter how small their domain, could feel it too. It is a part of what made them supernatural, the ability to feel _all_ of their people, and see where they were at.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, letting himself float away as his body continued to walk in a casual pace. Personifications could always feel the major geopolitical events that shook their people no matter where they were on the globe, but in order to feel _everything_ right before them and watch it all like a guardian angel, they had to be standing on their land, and be relaxed. Those were two need that Alfred couldn’t meet for months, and it tore him to shreds at the back of his mind. But now, he could finally find himself peaceful enough, content enough, and on his own land to do it.

He let out a long sigh, and felt the energy from the ground below him as he let himself slip away and bear witness to the sensations of his peoples. It wasn’t the same as feeling exactly what they were feeling, but nor was it the same as observing their lives from a distance. They shared energies, shared the same heart and soul. It was like thousands upon thousands of little strings tugging at his soul, each one representing a different person. Sometimes strings would break off in the middle of meditation, signifying death or renouncement of citizenship, and other new ones could appear and dance before him be connecting to him from the gifts of childbirth and immigration.

It was as if their souls were connected to his own, conjoining them like a pair of twins. With each deep breath he took in and out, he could feel the thousands upon thousands of children’s heartbeats, of women laughing, of boys playing, of men gossiping, of girls wishing they were boys, of the ecstasy after a child is born healthy, of the sensation of biting into fruit, of new love, of the feeling of falling from great highs and surviving, of accidentally shooting your abusive husband. Being assaulted. Being battered. Being called horrible names just for the social status you were born with. Being treated like a slave. Being a slave.

Alfred opened his eyes wide, feeling winded, like he had been struck in the back with something harsh and sharp. It had been so long... He had forgotten that when it came to meditation, he felt not only his legal citizens, but also those who lived on the land and proudly declared themselves as one of his own. He always took them in with loving open arms, willing to embrace the feelings of anybody who would be proud enough to be called one of his own. But sometimes, in a rush of overzealous enthusiasm, he would forgot what sort of horrors that could entail.

Arthur had once joked that they were ambassadors of the Holy Spirit, making God’s job easier by concentrating the feelings of a whole group of people into one single life force, who could then simplify and propose it to their boss so they could address it easier. He had laughed at the idea the time he heard it, finding it an amusing and overly sensational comparison. But as he thought about it, the more clear it became. It made sense. Nation’s meditation was supposed to be something sacred, something a nation was to enjoy. The way Arthur would always speak of it, it was like their birthright. But he just felt a pain he never wanted to feel again during a time he was supposed to be at his safest. So something about it must be _wrong_ , it had to be.

He looked up to Arthur, who held his head high and his posture as straight as ever as his eyes explored the boundless nature the strolled around in. He realized he had stopped walking, seeing the nation watching some flowers up ahead of him. He wondered if it was a good idea to tell him what he felt.

Then Arthur turned back to him, bringing his thoughts back into the realm of the real and present. He tilted his head and with a warm smile said, “come now, I see the house just up ahead.”

He gasped in ecstatic anticipation as he ran up beside him, following where he pointed to, and there it was. _Home_! They had made it home! He let out a voiceless shrill of joy as his eyes began to tear up, a rush of sentimentality and homeliness and a sudden will to just get down on his knees and thank God flooded right through him. It was right there; his home was right there. There it stood in all its picket fence and painted light brown glory. They had finally made it. From hell to their haven. From strangers back to family.

“I’ve missed home,” he whispered to himself before allowing himself to throw his head back and yell out louder, to the whole world. “I’ve missed it all! I’ve missed… roaming in the fields. I’ve missed racing through the wind –”

“There are fields and winds in my lands too, you know,” Arthur added in from the side with a playful smirk.

“I know. I know.” He struggled to regain his feet after bouncing up and down too hard. “And they are nice –” _No, no._ he thought to himself. _They’re not just nice, they’re beautiful._ “But, you see, I’ve missed _my_ fields and _my_ winds,” he said, nodding along with each word he emphasized with an excitable smile. He just couldn’t wait to roam around in them and roll in the dirt. He was already dirty, but damn that was dirt and grime from any other place. He wanted to get dirty in _his_ dirt.

Arthur laughed, understanding him. “Yes, I see.” He shuffled along, poking Alfred, making him walk along again. They were so close now, only a couple minutes of walking. They went by in a flash, and then all of a sudden they were standing at the door.

Arthur knocked, mentioning the thought, “I wonder how much Matthew has grown in our absence.”

Alfred looked back at him like he was crazy. “It’s only been four months! I don’t think he would have grown too much.”

“About six, now, by the time we have spent getting here,” Arthur teased. “Who knows, he might be taller than you now.”

Then there was a sudden click, and then the door opened, revealing a young black lady wearing clothing more suited for a maid and a thick brown headscarf that covered her hair. Alfred froze, staring at her horrified. Would Matthew ever... Would he ever take on a…? No, no. His morals were far greater than that. Maybe he moved out... Maybe they had to try again someplace else to find him. Suddenly a hot rush of panic passed right through him. What if he was evicted somehow?

The lady tried to give him a warm and welcoming smile, yet it faltered, and she looked down to the ground in humiliation, swallowing deeply and shifting her feet. Alfred realized he had been staring and looked away sharply, cursing himself for being so rude.

Arthur butted in, being more civil than Alfred could act. “Good day, Mistress. I am unsure if you know of either of us, but my name is Arthur Kirkland. Does a boy by the name of Matthew still reside here?”

She perked up after hearing his name, more sunny and lively. “Matthew? Why yes, he does! I’ll go get him for you, Mr Kirkland.”

She walked off into the house, leaving them at the door. Alfred looked back at Arthur, worry in his eyes and uncertainty in his head. Arthur just shook his head. No? No as in disapproval or as in ' _you’ve got it all wrong, Alfred_ '? He tired his best to manage his breathing. She did call him ‘Matthew’, after all... Maybe they were close friends, and that was all. 

But then a blond blur appeared, racing down the stairs and stopping straight at the door, and all his worries were suddenly lost. Because there was Matthew, frozen still with wide eyes and a look of pure shock on his face. _Matthew_.

He looked older; Arthur was right. He could have been thirteen, if he were human. But dear God, he also looked as white as a ghost! He began whimpering, and held his hands out to cover mouth as his eyes darted from Alfred to Arthur and back again. And while Alfred was at first feeling a mixture of confusion and worry, it all dispelled in a second as he began laughing in pure ecstasy and elation. Because there, there he was. His brother! His baby brother, he was there! He was home! All that time and energy and worry and fun and anticipation, it was all worth it. Because he was home…

“Hey, brother,” Alfred managed to whisper breathlessly in the frosted heat of it all.

Matthew let out a little squeal as he finally moved and ran up to him, enveloping him into a big hug, the two of them tumbling down onto the floor of the porch in a heap of emotional gasping and wheezing and laughing and crying. Alfred held his hand out to Arthur, who still stood above them, and he leaned down trying to find a civil way to join in. But Matthew tugged on his arm hard, and he came crashing down on top of them, and the three of them became a great big ball of messy tears and loving embraces that lasted for ages and eons. However, when they finally did move again, getting off one another, Alfred noticed that the woman was laughing. She leaned on one of the poles, watching them from afar in affection for what she had seen.

“Oh!” Matthew cried out as he stood up to be next to her and pointed to her. “This is Missy, by the way. She’s a freewoman.”

Alfred let out a sound of slight recognition as he realized, relaxing as he sat cross-legged on the ground. He felt terrible for assuming things, absentmindedly running his hand through his hair. Arthur got up, reaching out a hand for Alfred to take, which he used to pick himself up as his empire brushed the dust off of him. He stood there, dazed from all the emotions that had rushed back and fourth though him so quickly. In the end, he couldn’t help but laugh it off. He had only just gotten all his energy back, and now he was wasting it all away on worrying about things he never should have bothered with! That he never should have assumed... He just hoped that Mistress Missy would forgive him.

“Oh,” he huffed quietly as he gestured towards her. “Well, I’m sorry then. I think I found myself assuming the worst. My name is Alfred,” he said it with a little bow, showing his repentant respect to the kindly lady.

She nodded curtly with a small and accepting smile. “I understand. Matthew has filled me in with quite a lot about you two. It’ll be lovely to finally meet you. I have to prepare supper for now, so I expect Matthew will show you to your rooms while you wait." She then paused for a moment. "But then, you already know where your rooms are, don’t you?” She chuckled, shaking her head, amused as she dismissed herself, leaving the three of them out there on the front porch together.

.

.

Sitting at the supper table was a surreal experience. The energy of it was so drastically different to the servants’ table it nearly rendered Alfred speechless.

Firstly, the materials. They were much richer. It was a nice mahogany table, imported from the more southern parts of the continent. The candles were elegantly decorated, and the whole room had a nice golden glow to it, keeping Alfred warm in both flesh and soul.

It was much smaller, and a lot less cramped, having only four people to sit around it. But it felt so much more like home.

The food was much richer, with bigger meats and better vegetables. It was an absolute feast. The two boys had to be careful not to overeat, only just returning from a journey low on exotic foods.

And the energy of the room. While the servants’ table tried to be as celebratory and swift as possible, the supper table managed to make Alfred feel something that it never could. He felt safe here.

“ – And so I told her not to, but she gave me some free extra apples anyway! That lady is so generous. I swear the whole town loves her,” Matthew continued to tell his story in his ever so soft velvety voice. It had gotten a little deeper since Alfred had heard it last, and every now and again it would break and crack, showing glimpses of what it might sound like after puberty.

He was just so proud, watching him. He was so young, forced to live around town all alone for half a year, but he seemed to have mastered it all on his own. All the stories he told were ones of generosity and giving, and it made Alfred’s heart warm to know his people were so giving. But it also made him interested in to see what type of person the experience had shaped Matthew into. He seemed to be loved by all, like his personality was the type that everybody could bond with.

Missy sat beside him, and they seemed to get along swimmingly, her acting like a young mother to him, and him a kind and sweethearted son willing to help her out with anything. For four months they had survived in this relatively large house together, Alfred and Arthur had learned from their conversations. He couldn’t help but admire it. It was a shame Arthur had other plans.

“Now, Matthew. Alfred and I are going to have to move away from here. The King knows we used to live here. If he sends any men out to find us he will immediately check for this spot. We cannot stay for too long. If you like, you can come with us, and that invitation can extend to Missy. But we cannot stay,” he said it surely, with a detailed plan written all out in his mind. He had drafted it with Alfred on the way to the house, but he never really payed much attention, just wanting to get home first before thinking of all the planning jargon of the trip.

Matthew put his fork down, looking at Arthur with a furrowed brow. “No,” he said firmly. “No, sorry. But I choose to stay. This… this is my home. I’ve been maintaining it on my own with Missy for so long now! I can’t just abandon it.”

“And if the solders come again? Whatever will we do if they take you for ransom or blackmail or rather? I couldn’t live with myself,” Arthur rebutted.

Matthew shook his head. “If any solders come, then I would just have to say I have no idea about you two. I’ve never even seen you. I can use my relations with the townspeople to my advantage. They all love me. I’m sure they will fight for me if I get into any trouble.”

Alfred smiled brightly at that, convinced that theory could work. He had faith in his people. “Well dang,” he sung. “Mattie’s kinda getting cunning in his ways!”

Arthur sighed, resting his head in his hand and his arm on the table. There’s never any winning when the kind one gets stubborn. “Very well then,” he finally caved in. “But you must write to us frequently. And when I say frequently, I mean weekly. Even daily, if you want. I did not come all the way here just to have us leave you again so soon.”

Alfred nodded and made some excitable whoops in agreement. It was a great plan for when they had to move out. Speaking of that, “oh yeah, that reminds me. How long do we have until we have to move out?”

Arthur made a humming sound as he thought about it, tugging on the Queen’s fabric he kept as a purple plaything. “About a month, I would say. You have to remember that the information wouldn’t be able to travel any faster than we did, and it took us around that much time and I must say we were incredibly lucky to get ride after ride so smoothly.”

“So how did you get here anyway? It sounds like a real adventure,” Missy asked, intrigued.

“We rode on a whaling ship that actually wasn’t whaling. They were just dodging taxes,” Alfred smirked as he remembered the heated debate between nation and captain. Mattie gasped, holding his hands to his face as he turned to Arthur, eager to see his expression.

“Oh no,” he nearly giggled. “How did you feel about that, Mr England?”

“It drove him mad,” Alfred butted in, laughing at him.

“Oh, you unlicked cub!” Arthur waved his hand at him as if he were trying to swat a fly in the room. He fell back into his seat with a loud huff and he rolled his eyes. “Well, I had to put up with it in the end, I suppose. They got us back here, after all. We have to be grateful for that,” and he went back to stabbing his food with his fork.

Alfred shrugged as he continued laughing at him. Missy started laughing too, amazed to finally see the dynamics between the three of them after so many months of talk. Then she stood up to leave for the kitchen, saying something about needing to clean up properly before things get too dirty.

“Oh come on,” Alfred said after she left, “they weren’t hurting anybody!”

“No,” Arthur refuted in a low voice. “They were hurting me! That money is –”

“All right. All right. I’m sorry to interrupt you but no politics at the table,” Mattie hushed them quiet with a cocky grin. He really had just made himself king of this damned castle during their long-term service leave, hadn’t he? But then turned to Arthur, looking more serious, and even slightly concerned. “But that does remind me. France visited a while ago. He said he wanted to talk to you. I told him were back on your own land and so he left.” He smiled before adding in his own unsolicited opinion, trying to sound amusing, “but I do think you might have passed each other on the way here the ships you rode on.”

Arthur furrowed his thick brows, gripping tightly onto his fidget fabric. “France? Bloody why?”

“I don’t know,” Mattie shrugged. “He just said something about your navy and left.”

He narrowed his eyes, making a disapproving sound. “My navy, huh?” He lifted his head up high and begun stroking the fabric like a kitten, nodding his head slowly with his lips forming a firm straight line.

Alfred ignored him and turned back to Mattie. “You broke your own rule!”

He looked back at Alfred, confused, “huh?”

“You broke it! You talked politics!”

Mattie gasped loudly before shaking his head adamantly. “No! No, I didn’t!”

“Yes you did!”

“Nope!”

“Yeah, you brought up France and the British navy. That’s political!”

They both turned to Arthur simultaneously, both begging him to take their side of the argument. He just looked at the two of them and sighed deeply. It was an exasperated sigh, completely over the events of their long trip. It was also a concerned sigh, worried about whatever shit France was starting up. Yet, in its own right, it was also a gleeful sigh, relieved that the journey was over, and he was back in the New World finally. Back with Matthew and Alfred, as noisy and annoying as they could ever be, but back with them in the place they called home, the Colonies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yay!! happy reunions. It's so close to the end of the year now!  
> Now I can finally start diving back into the history again, finally.


	11. The year was 1765

It was the morning and the sound of Alfred’s free laughter echoed throughout the halls of his old home. He spun on his heel, feeling his bare feet stroke against the carpets and the fresh air swoosh around his fast-moving arms. He hopped and skipped along as he looked from side to side at all the paintings on the walls, letting himself laugh louder as he remembered and reminisced over the stories behind each one’s origin.

Oh, Matthew was so mad when he accidentally spilled water on that one over there. His brother worked so hard on it, he felt terrible after it didn’t return to its original appearance after it dried. Eventually he went out and got a professional to paint over it again, making it look better than the original in the end. But Matthew would claim it always looked that good.

And the other painting next to it – it was of the woods around their house. He loved how its blues and yellows married up together, flowing and forming into images of trees and forests that perfectly recreated the wonder of walking through a paradise of green and gold.

Oh, and there was another one, right there! Arthur had painted that one. It was of Alfred and Mattie, the two of them sitting and staring at their tedious painter with such dead serious expressions. Alfred could never help himself from scoffing whenever he saw it. He remembered the day it was painted, and he was sure to say it was a lot different to what those very sharp and sincere strokes had portrayed it to be. That day was full of laughter and completely frivolous fun, reality never touched by such a stoic brush of paint.

The two of them wanted to rile up Arthur, telling jokes and laughing so hard it felt like they were losing their minds. The poor English nation, he was just trying to stop their sweet merriment for just a few minutes so he could paint them. He bickered with them and pleaded for them to sit still, but in the end he found there was no winning. He was far too outnumbered and outgiggled, especially when that rouge little squirrel decided to invite itself into the house and knock over a couple of water-filled vases next to them, leaving their feet soaking wet. The two colonies squealed and ran back to dry safety, laughing and crying out as they clung onto each other for dear life. Arthur finally caved in and laughed along with them, teasing them as he let them go along their way to clean themselves. Eventually they regrouped and he had them painted, using his own imaginative streak to fix their expressions and perfect their postures to the proper English standard.

Alfred chuckled as he moved closer to the painting. One had to admire Arthur’s skill. The precision, the persistence, the grace in his flow. He always found Arthur’s art so beautiful. He guessed that was why the very word was in his name, after all. He smiled at its color scheme. Arthur insisted in keeping the colors light and simple, soft and natural, though Alfred didn’t know why at the time. Now it was clear. It went well with the rest of the hall. Rays of natural sunlight beamed in brightly, highlighting the features on the walls and intensifying the fresh feeling of the house. It felt safe and secure and indoors, yet free and flowing like being outdoors was all the same. By God, it was good to be home.

He continued to walk down the hall with a light skip in his step, enjoying the natural flow of the browns and blues. He leaned down and touched the elaborate engravings Arthur had carved onto the wooden doors so long ago. Old English lions and unicorns danced around the door handle with beautiful choreography and delicate grace. Alfred remembered when Arthur etched them into the wood, showing off his skill with a prideful gleam, an upturned nose and a careless shrug of the shoulder. He couldn’t help but feel giddy as he smiled at the memory. How creative Arthur was, with all his embroided fabrics and painted portraits and wooden carvings.

He snapped out of his daze as he heard the sound of soft footsteps approaching.

Peeking over the corner of the adjacent hall, he spotted Missy standing there in her headscarf as she placed a basket half full of clothing on the table. He smiled sweetly as he made his way towards her with great eagerness.

“Good morning!” He cheered with an excitably frantic wave of his hand. She whipped her head over, her mouth agape and eyes wide open as she took a step back from the by the sudden and unexpected noise. She recovered quickly, however, chuckling to herself as she shook her head, smiled and let her shoulders slouch. “I have to tell ya, there’s nothing like sleeping in your own bed after a real long trip abroad.”

She raised an eyebrow at him skeptically, picking up the basket to fiddle with it before finally resting on her hip. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been too far abroad,” she replied with an affirming hum.

“Really?” Alfred exclaimed, “I’m surprised. Mattie says you’re quite the news woman. I would have expected you to know everything about everywhere by the way he seems to praise you.”

Missy laughed loudly at that, letting herself ease up a bit. She rolled her eyes and flashed a small smile, glancing away then back before saying, “oh, that means nothin'. He praises everybody.”

“No!” Alfred cried out in rebuttal, “no, he doesn’t! He’s always criticizing me but not you, so that must mean you’re real special to him.”

“Does it now?” She said, a somber hint of gratefulness glimmering over her eyes before her sense of pride overcame it. She smiled smugly and added, “well he better see me that way, with all the work I do ‘round here.”

Alfred nodded his head, accepting her statement. He really couldn’t fathom how to put it into words, but he was beyond thankful that she showed up when she did. If she hadn’t, he truly had no idea how Matthew would have handled living alone for so long, especially with his body at such a young age, even younger than himself at fifteen. The things she knew were valuable, lifesaving even. Somehow, she kept herself in the loop. Which was why he was so desperate to get a moment alone with her.

“Do you know about anything that’s been going on around here, if you don’t mind me asking?” He asked cautiously, fiddling with his fingers. “We only just got back from an… isolated place and we have… no idea where we are at politically.” Missy hummed in agreement, nodding along as he spoke and giving him the confidence to continue. “Mattie says you’re my best shot. He says you’re good at keeping him informed so I thought you could brush up on my knowledge too.”

“Alright…” She moved her basket from one hip side to the other, “I assume you know taxes have been increasing to pay off the debts from the last war?”

“Yeah,” Alfred nodded.

“Well, a new act passed back in July, just after you left. It attacks the printing industry. The Stamp Act, have you heard?”

“No.”

She sighed, “to call it unpopular would be an understatement. There are boycotts and protests everywhere for it, and the aggravation has only increased since July. There are even riots down certain streets. Even in Britain too –”

“In Britain?” Alfred was shocked. That means Arthur would be able to feel whatever he had been feeling during mediation, if it were really strong enough to rock the politics of the whole country.

“Yes. There are plenty of merchants back in Britain who have been boycotting the tax too. Some say their heated fury is even greater than that of the Colonies.”

“Really?” Alfred exclaimed, his mouth hanging wide open. Merchants! He wondered if Captain Dougal was a part of that crusade as well. But if that were the case, and the civil unrest had really been overboiling like that across the Atlantic, then there was no way that Arthur – as the personification of England – wouldn’t be able to feel it.

He leaned in closer to Missy and gave her a heartfelt look, letting the gratitude shine through his eyes. “Thank you,” he whispered before letting his curiosity get to the better of him, perking himself up straight and taking a step back. “But do you mind me asking…” He shook his head, “how do you know all this?”

Missy sighed and put the basket back down after twiddling with its edges. She opened her mouth, then hesitated, as if she were debating her answer. “Work,” she finally settled on, her voice nice and firm.

“Where,” Alfred prodded on, “do you work?”

She shook her head. “I find that far too dangerous to tell. I think you would know the further I get to town the more unrest I cause for just being there. But I’m lucky. Here, we’re rural. I work. I make my living through my own means. I keep my peace and take care of myself. That’s all you need to know, especially at your age.”

Alfred couldn’t help but grin awkwardly. Ah yes, he needn’t know at his age. Far too young for that stuff. She watched his reaction intently, her expression tinged with suspicion, as if she were trying to figure out some mystery about him, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Oh boy, she had absolutely no idea.

Missy snapped out of her gaze and shook her head. Then, in a reaffirming voice, “all you need to know is that here, I help take care of the house. That’s my job _here_.” She smirked slightly before adding, “and that includes drinking all the alcohol around here too. I have to keep it away from Matthew somehow.”

Alfred snickered at that, “no, I bet all my eye! Mattie would never drink.”

She rolled her eyes impatiently. “You would be surprised. I have to keep him in line all the time. It’s serious, down here. We have to be careful, or we’ll end up the way the worst of rumors in town say of us – he keeps me as a fancy lady through either kidnapping or my own desperate starvation.”

Alfred took a step back in shock. People thought she was his prostitute? He could hardly believe his ears. “Who the hell would think that?” He cried out hysterically.

“Many people,” she said with a shrug.

“But that’s horrible!” Alfred gasped. People really thought Matthew kept her as a… “He’s only thirteen! Why would they think that?”

She looked at him like he was stupid before showing him a more tender expression. “Malice,” she said softly. “People are malicious. They don’t like it when _different_ people live independently. It worries their nerves. Don’t harm me, though. It keeps them well away most of the time. Too scared to touch the Negro woman,” she chuckled mockingly, letting the tense silence fall between them a few moments. “In a way it’s better for them to think of me his slave. Safer, even. You don’t harm other people’s property, that’s for sure. That would just be… barbaric.”

Alfred frowned deeply, lightly biting his lip as he intently observed the patterns of the carpet below him. He didn’t know how to respond to that. He just kept quiet, half ashamed, half enraged, trying to keep it all in, let it sizzle out in his heart as he stayed still. He wouldn’t know what to do if people misinterpreted him as property of another. Hell, he already was property of another. He belonged to the King of England. Yet all he wanted to do was climb the tallest mountain in the world and shout off it, scream out to everybody that he didn’t belong to him. That he didn’t belong to anybody at all, despite it not being true to the written law. He couldn’t fathom other people actually thinking of him as property if he really wasn’t. After all he’d been through… He just wouldn’t be able to take it. He just couldn’t do it.

“And you?” Missy asked curtly, getting him to snap his head up and look at her. “You a fugitive, right? That’s why you fled on a boat to come here.” The hunger in her eyes was evident; she was curious herself, and she wanted to know. It was as if she felt it her reward for answering her fair share of questions, and she would stop at nothing to get her answers.

Alfred hugged himself tightly. There was nowhere to run here. He guessed he would have to answer truthfully. “Yeah, you could say that,” he whispered softly.

She hummed affirmatively, as if expecting it. “You an indentured servant?”

He hugged himself tighter and nodded quietly, looking away. An indentured servant would be as close he could get to describing himself as a group of colonies owned by the King.

“So how did it happen?” She continued to interrogate. “You don’t sound Irish or the starving type either, so you done something to stir up trouble and get arrested. You ran away, so you didn’t let your contract end. That means you were desperate to get away quick. Why?”

Alfred’s arms dropped to his side. He didn’t know what on Earth he could say to respond to that. How the hell did she move that fast, making crazy deductions like that? It suddenly became clear to him why Matthew idolized her so much. She had a real smart survivalist drive in her. He could appreciate that, but it also made him wonder again what the hell was it that she did to earn a living.

“We couldn’t let our contract end. Our contract never ends.”

“But that’s illegal,” she rebuked. “Unless you’re a permanent convict, and you’re too young for that.”

Alfred nodded, intrigued. She knew quite a bit about the law. That was new. “Do you have any lawyer friends, by chance?” Maybe she worked for a legal team, and it was all confidential or something.

“I don’t have friends,” she brushed him off quick. “How come your contract never ends?”

“It does.” Alfred fired back, getting agitated. “But when it ends another one is written up for us immediately.” He rolled his eyes. It was true enough. As soon as the current King died, all of his pets were gonna be flung into the possession of the shiny and new King, to start all over again with the exact same shit.

Missy looked at him confused. It felt like her inquisitive brown eyes were staring straight into his soul and assessing who he was.

“It gets passed through inheritance,” he said quickly, hoping to end the conversation.

“Ah,” she nodded her head upwards before looking straight back into his wide eyes, watching him with extreme intensity. A few tense moments of Alfred nervously looking around for an exit passed before she finally asked accusingly, “who exactly are you?”

He blinked, unsure of how to respond. “I’m sorry?” He asked in a jittery voice, swerving his body away from her.

“I thought something was strange with Matthew when I first met him. It took months for me to notice that he’s got purple eyes,” she started. “And then you two arrived. And you’re too perfect, the both of you. Your eyes are the same as his. They don’t look natural.”

Alfred blinked, standing completely still, simply shocked by all her sudden judgments. She shook her head at him, continuing with her onslaught. “You look dangerous. You feel dangerous to be around. But you’re a child. It doesn’t make sense. You’re unnatural. So, who or _what_ are you?”

Alfred shook his head, trying his best to keep his blurring vision at bay. He had heard this talk before, and the end result was something he would never want to relive. It burned his soul so bad; he thought these sorts of interrogations were behind him. They ran from the King. He thought they had left these sorts of subjugating speeches behind. He had to keep himself from sobbing. He had to be strong...

But he just couldn’t stand the thought of doing all of this again all the way back at home when he though he was safe and sound and... and _unnatural_... she said he was _unnatural_... He shook his head maniacally, running his hands through his hair. “I’m not in league with the Devil or anything!” He cried out with a whimper, unsure of what he was even saying.

She took a step back, shocked by his outburst. “No, I ain’t accusing you of that sort of insubordination,” she tried her best to restitch the wounds she had just made. “I mean no harm. I want us to be on the same side. I was just wondering who you were.” She looked at him with genuine concern. He knew she meant no harm and he accepted that. But he couldn’t let go the sudden rush of insecure feelings that had overcome him, and he felt the sudden urge to leave immediately.

“Well, I’m sorry,” he managed to quickly splurge out, bitter at himself for losing control. He was damn well centuries old, much older than this spinster woman before him. Why couldn’t he act it? “But I guess that will have to remain as mysterious as your profession, then, Miss Missy. Please excuse me.”

He quickly rushed past her and ran down the hall, still sprinting even after turning the corner and losing sight of her. She didn’t follow him, but he still kept up his speed. He just wanted to let out some of his nerves. Running always helped him. It always reminded him that he had his own beating heart, its pumping and thumping rhythms always calming him down. Yeah, he was calm. He was fine. He was at peace. He was fine. He would be fine.

The door beside him suddenly burst wide open with a loud bang. Alfred leaped back against the opposite wall, his hands falling onto his chest, too scared to scream. But then he heard a familiar British cheer coming from outside. Confused and in a daze, he looked up at the arch over the doorway. Oh… he recognized that beautifully engraved arch. He had made it to the front door. He could have laughed at himself if his heart wasn’t racing so fast. He let in a big breath, then let it out as he saw Arthur walk in from outside and close the door behind him.

The English Empire gleamed with pride and proper achievement; his purple cloth rapped firmly around his neck in a stylish fashion. He was smiling widely, looking ecstatically happy as he turned to look back at Alfred, chipper and eager to see him. Alfred felt his own nerves from Missy’s talk finally dissipate at the sight of him.

“Oh, I must say, Alfred. Your peoples’ markets always store such wonders within them!” Arthur cried out as he waved a strange parchment around in the air. “It must be something about their simplicity that makes them so beautiful. Yet they are also so fast moving and complex at the same time!”

That reminded Alfred, Arthur had said he was going to spend the morning at the markets. He didn’t know what for, but Arthur said it would be for something exciting. He wondered what the parchment was for and wandered towards him in excited anticipation, forgetting how he was feeling only just moments before.

“Here,” Arthur gladly showed it to him in a flash before grabbing his hand and guiding him into the closest drawing room. “This has been on my mind for quite a while throughout the past few months. I must address it.”

“Really?” Alfred asked laughingly, barely registering where he was before Arthur closed the door, leaving the two of them isolated in a room grandly decorated with nature.

“Remember how, a few months ago, we were in the Lodge and we spoke about the Magna Carta?” Arthur asked as he laid the blank parchment flat out onto a drawing table and weighed the corners down with weights.

“Yeah, I still remember that,” Alfred nodded, feeling a strange sense of anticipation rising up in his chest.

“Well, the original copy, as you know, is ruined. But I was there to witness it,” he continued, gathering ink and a set of quills from a drawer to the side. “So, I thought we could replicate it.” Then he held out a finger to Alfred’s direction as if calling for a point of information. “But, I thought, how about we make it more personalized. A new Magna Carta, just for us!” He smiled as he gestured to the parchment, “here, we can lay out all of our rights and set up our boundaries, nice and clear, straight and plain. We can write them out onto paper and show it to our next boss, giving us a fresh start along with a new king.” He looked up at him with hopeful bright green eyes, “would you like that?”

Alfred’s face broke out into a wide smile, and he felt his eyes grow teary for the second time that morning but for a completely different reason. Arthur must have been planning this for a long while. His considerate charm had completely engulfed the Colonies, and he unwittingly held dominion over the younger boy’s heart. Alfred could do nothing in his tingly state of enchantment but enthusiastically nod with a dopey grin spread out across his face.

They spent a good while discussing the introduction of their charter, Arthur intently drawing fancy boarders with official insignia and emblems and beautiful flowers as they chatted about their ideas. Eventually they settled for simple wording, getting straight to the point with Arthur’s neat and sharp calligraphy. It was when they got to the charter sections where things slowly started to pick up speed.

“So I don’t get it. Are they called sections or clauses?” Alfred asked as Arthur wrote _Section I_ in bold, clear precise handwriting near the top of the parchment.

“Every topic is a new section, and each point about that topic has a clause,” Arthur said absentmindedly before the quill ran out of ink yet again. He scowled and pushed harder, desperate to just finish one more line without having to dip the quill again, but he ended up snapping it. “Bugger,” he hissed before grabbing another quill like it was nothing.

Alfred giggled as he teased, “swearing’s illegal where you’re from!” It had been ever since 1745.

“I know,” Arthur shushed him playfully. “I have been fined for it before.”

“Oh, I know,” Alfred laughed again. “I was there!”

Arthur nodded his head tersely. “Worth my money though,” he smiled. “Damn that bastard.”

Alfred let out a little mock gasp, and held his fingers out in front of his mouth. Wow, what scandalous language! He knew his own hypocrisy well; he could remember saying words with far greater weight in the past. But it was just too funny not to tease. And it also gave him a great idea. “Oh, hey!” He cheered, “how about we make the first clause –”

“ _Section_ ,” Arthur interrupted.

“– about the right to say the things we need to say?”

Arthur blinked. “As in the right to vocalize our opinions?”

“Yeah,” Alfred smiled. “And the right to argue things in parliament. Because that’s why our bosses are supposed to keep us around anyway. To tell them the people’s deepest desires from within their hearts, which can sometimes be confronting for them…” He scratched behind his ear.

Arthur nodded slowly, yet still rejected him, albeit with a kindly tone of voice. “Would it not be better if the first section was about our core rights. Like the right to lead our own lives first and foremost, and that our natural living state is one of freedom, and that we have the right to own our own property?”

“Oh,” Alfred hummed. “I guess so,” he said slowly, feeling stupid for struggling to catch up with whatever he just said. “Well, you’ve made charters before, and this is my first time. How about I just let you take the lead…” He smiled smoothly as he sat down behind Arthur, secretly enjoying the new angle he could see him form.

Arthur just laughed.

In the end, they settled on ten sections. “Like the ten commandments!” Alfred had cheered sweetly, getting a little chuckle form Arthur in response. The rights of movement, of travel, of privacy and communication, of property and equal protection to that of a human, along with a few others that Arthur had to explain the purpose of to him; they were all inscribed right there on that very parchment. One long, thick document. The art was beautiful, and the message strong. It was an exciting, inciting, and thrilling piece of paper to look at.

He found himself quite surprised over how useful he actually ended up being while creating it. He constantly thought outside the box, adding in new elements and key ideas into the parchment that Arthur had either accidentally omitted or never even thought about in the first place. He even proudly fixed a couple of sentence structures, making the flow from clause to clause run more smoothly, earning an impressed nod of appreciation from Arthur. The implications made him buzz with excitement; _maybe he was smarter than he thought_. Maybe he could take on reading some John Locke, or another philosopher. If he had the brains to stomach this charter, then maybe it was time to step up his game. Maybe even write a charter like this for his own people, because the glories that it promised, oh, he wanted nothing more than for his own people feel such liberties.

Alfred looked back to Arthur, who’s face was beaming with a sense of relief, and liberation, and accomplishment. They shared a smile for a few moments before Alfred’s emotions overcame him once again and he looked down. He spotted one of the few remaining quills that wasn’t broken and picked it up, smiling back at a bemused Arthur as he dipped it in the ink and wrote in bold letters at the very top:

Magna Arthur

Arthur looked down to read the title and laughed loudly. " _The great bear,"_ he chuckled, charmed by his chosen name.

“Yes!” Alfred exclaimed. “Now you have to add in some drawings of bears in it as well so it makes more sense. But then after that you better watch out cause…”

“Cause… ?” Arthur smirked.

“Cause then 'oh my God! There’ll be a bear in here!'” He cried out, grabbing Arthur by the waist and pulling him down into the lounge, roaring loudly. “Wait, no! Hear that?” He said as he perked his head up. “It looks like there is one in here right now! Run, Arthur, run!” He roared out again as he begun mercilessly tickling him.

“You unlicked cub!” Arthur cried out in delight, managing to restrain Alfred by both of his hands. “Are you sure those are even bear noises you are making? You sound more like a deranged tickle monster hiding under the bed than anything else!” He laughed loudly as he shoved the younger boy off him, making him fly across the room and land on the opposite couch with a soft little plonk.

Alfred’s mouth hung wide as he sat their surrounded by pillows, looking around in a dazed shock over what had just happened. “That was fun!” He cheered raising his hands to the air, bouncing up and down. “Can we do it again?”

Arthur chuckled but he still ignored him, standing up from where he was sitting and waltzed back to the parchment. It was as if his sudden display of great strength had never even transpired. “Come now,” Arthur waved him over with a little knowing smirk. “We still have to sign it.”

Alfred groaned childishly, but he still got up, skipping over quickly to be beside Arthur and watching him as he signed his own name off with beautiful calligraphy. Then he grabbed a little knife from the drawer and lightly pricked the skin near his knuckle, just enough to draw a drop of blood.

“Why are you doing that?” Alfred asked him, shocked and concerned.

“It is a little tradition us nations do. When you sign a governmental or legal paper with your own blood, it is said to bring good luck to whatever cause it may promote,” he explained as he dabbed the little splodge of red next to his neatly signed name. “You can do it too if you like, but you don’t have to. It is all superstition, but I like it. It gives me a good feeling of security.” He then smiled sadly at the paper, “and every document I have ever done it for has been enacted on, so...”

Alfred hummed, contemplating whether he should do it. It sounded strange, but also really interesting. “Yeah, I think I wanna do it too,” he said as he nodded, picking up the knife and hastily slashing it from the base of his knuckle up to the middle of his pointer finger. “Ouch!” He yelped, dropping the knife in shock.

“Why did you cut so deep for?” Arthur cried out in abashed worry.

“I don’t know!” He whimpered in a dumbfounded reply as he watched the blood pour over.

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah, I should be... It’s just a little cut.”

Arthur sighed loudly, rubbing his forehead with his palm, “well, you better go get yourself cleaned up then. Matthew bought in some water from the well this morning. It should be in the kitchen, use that.”

Alfred nodded sadly, “I know.” He started heading out before he turned back to look at Arthur, “hey. Don’t you think Matthew should be a part of this too?”

Arthur looked intently at the parchment, deep in thought, then back at Alfred, softening his expression. “If he wants to, he can read over and sign it too. Fetch him if you want.”

Alfred walked out of the room, heading towards the kitchen and entering it. Despite two seasons worth of not seeing it, it had not changed in the slightest. He opened a compartment with bowls, pulled one out and dipped it into the well bucket.

“Wow,” he whispered, looking into it in all its crisp and clean glory. Colonial water was always far cleaner than that at England’s house. He dipped his hand into it, letting the blood flow out and cleaning the wound. He then noticed a familiar head walk past.

“Hey, Mattie!” He cried out to the bobbing head.

“Alfred!” He smiled softly as he approached him. “I was looking for you. Where were you?”

“Oh!” He jumped for joy. “Arthur came back home with some parchment. We decided to make our own charter that declares all of our rights and stuff as living… creatures. Do you wanna sign it to? We’re gonna give it to our next boss, whoever that might be!”

Matthew blinked, confused. “Oh. Alright then,” he nodded his head slowly. “But why are you doing that with your hand?”

“Well, that’s because I cut my hand to use blood for this little ritual thing –”

 _“What?”_ Matthew cried out, quite affronted.

Alfred shook in stunned shock, his legs began jittering from the effects of that retched word. He had tried so hard to avoid that word ever since getting back home. He could think it with peaceful ease, but for some aggravating reason his mouth always locked up before ever speaking it, and he strayed from its use as much as he could. It reminded him too much of the Lodge. He noticed Arthur had deviated from it too, either softening its blow with a gentle 'ever' or simply leaving it out of his speech altogether. He had already heard Missy say it once. She said it in the middle of a sentence, cushioning it with extra words like Arthur, but it was still said with assertive accusation. It was shaking, and it nearly rocked him to the core. But he could recover from it. Here and now, however, it was singular. A direct punch in the gut. A grabbing of his clothes, pulling him in and forcing him to smell the accuser's rotten breath. It was a scream in the ear. A burst of the eardrum. A pulse and a shock of fear.

He felt Matthew’s secure arm grab him gently on the shoulder, bringing him back to Earth. He looked down and noticed he had fallen onto the floor, and the bowl had spilled out the water everywhere. Oh no, water like that was always so precious. They could have used it for cleaning.

“I’m so sorry! Arthur told me to be careful with you, but I didn’t know that would scare you!” He heard Matthew cry out. He pulled his little brother into a tight hug, craving an embrace with anybody who loved him.

“No, it’s alright.” He whispered lightly, thinking back to what he said earlier. “I guess I shouldn’t have made it sound so culty.”

“How…” He asked slowly in his arms. “How bad was it over there?”

Alfred was about to answer as best he could before Arthur came in from around the corner. “Where did all this commotion come from?” He grumbled before noticing the two of them hugging on the floor. “And how did this happen?”

“I’m sorry,” Matthew cried out. “It was my fault. I scared Alfred.”

“No, don’t," Alfred said sadly. "We should have explained it to you better.” He picked himself up and leaned down to give Matthew a hand, which he took.

Arthur looked at Alfred with haunted eyes, as if asking him if it was all right to talk about it. Alfred nodded slowly. He felt too guilty keeping Matthew in the dark. “I’ll be fine," he said kindly to Arthur. "We can talk about it.”

It took a few moments, but they dried the water off. They found a spot, they sat down, and they spend the best part of the rest of their day whispering in hushed voices. They explained it with as many details their wits would allow them to utter without getting themselves upset. Their stay at Richmond Lodge, the way they were treated, the way others saw them, it all came flooding out of their hearts as they spoke to Matthew, who took it all in politely with complete and utter silence until they were done.

“But why?” He said softly after they had finished. “Why would he behave in such away?”

“I don’t know,” Alfred muttered. “I think he tortured us for fun.”

“I believe he was unwell. He must have been sick some way. I watched him grow up, he was never like that until he was crowned.” Arthur shook his head, almost like he was in disbelief.

“So he got drunk on power,” Alfred rolled his eyes, unaccepting of any compassion. “And he used it to hurt us.”

“Oh God,” Matthew whispered, almost in tears. “And here I was all these months thinking I had it worse because I was alone while you were living in luxury… If I had known, I would have tried so hard to get you out! Oh, I’m so sorry!” He began sobbing, and Alfred hugged him tight. He reached out for Arthur’s hand while in his brother’s embrace, who took it and stroked it tenderly.

“But we are here now,” Arthur said soothingly. “So we survived.”

Matthew nodded. “I love you,” he mumbled against Alfred’s chest.

“Love you too,” he replied quietly, stroking his elongated blond hair and letting a single tear run down his cheek. Arthur looked at him sadly and used his other hand to wipe it away and cup his face.

Alfred flashed his brightest smile back at Arthur. “But yeah, we survived,” he said to himself.

“Where is this blood charter thing? I want to do it and I want to summon a demon too and I want to curse him,” Matthew said as he suddenly stood up, getting Alfred to laugh.

“I didn’t know you had that in you, Matthew!” He joked.

“How the hell did you bloody describe it to him, Alfred?” Arthur cried out before turning to the Canadian personification in apology. “It is not a blood ritual, Matthew. It is just a charter that we wrote for each other. It promises our rights and liberties before the subjugation of our King.”

“Oh.” Matthew said bluntly. “Well then, pardon me but I don’t think I’ll intrude. You wrote it together right? It is your story and your experience to tell. I wasn’t a part of it. I was safe and over here the whole time. So I don’t want to be an impostor in a story that isn’t mine.”

“You’re not an impostor!” Alfred affirmed. “Everyone should have these rights. I wanna share them with you!”

Arthur ignored him, “that is completely understandable, Matthew. There is no need to sign it if you do not wish to.” A beam of light suddenly passed through the wide-open window, hitting him square in the face. He squinted, and shifted away from the sunlight with a little groan. “Ah, yes,” he jested to the air. “Message received.”

“Huh?”

“It should be the afternoon by now.” He smiled sweetly, “that means the markets have reopened.”

Alfred perked up at that. He hadn’t been to one of his own markets in so long! He missed the energy, the constant buzz, the bartering for better prices. The smiling faces and wondrous cheers. And Alfred was positively ecstatic to finally see his people again. “Really?” He exclaimed cheerfully, “can we go?”

Arthur’s small smile drained as something new dawned on him, and he let out a long sigh and shook his head slowly. “No, I cannot. I do apologize. But I have to stay here and manage international relations,” he sounded excruciatingly bored and he said it, deep regret already evident in his voice.

“International relations?” Alfred asked a little agitated. He couldn’t believe Arthur was actually planning on going back to work already. They had only just got back home.

“France came here for a reason,” he said with grim venom before rolling his eyes. “I have been neglecting why for these past two days and I have to find out why.” He looked back at the boys with a much kinder expression. “You two should go though. Have fun. You have not seen each other in so long,” he smiled softly as he ran a hand through his hair and held himself up tight. He tried to hold himself back as he said sadly, encouraging them from a distance, “go have fun.”

Alfred turned his head away, trying to hide his aggravated disappointment. So as soon as Arthur was free in the New World he was forced to go straight off back to work. It was so unfair; he was never able to stop working. He was about to argue before Matthew put his soft hand on his shoulder and rubbed it affectionately. He then whispered to him soothingly, understanding, “It’s all right, Alfie. We can still go together, eh?”

He turned back to his little brother, and tried his best to smile brightly at him while still clinging onto his frustration. “Yeah!” He attempted to say cheerfully, yet it still came out sounding dim.

.

.

The inner town markets were bright and busy. People were moving back and forth in the crowd, some with big smiles, others with looks of arrogant avarice, but very few could be described as looking lonely. There were singles, widows, married women, but overall mostly women apart from a few young boys doing errands. Some men were there, standing far from their wives, looking bored beyond their minds as their women looked at pretty ornaments and picked up interesting new household contraptions. Other men were right beside their women, cheerfully bartering with the male sellers as they showed off their well accomplished wives, educated enough to share their nicely refined tastes.

At first, due to his long-term absence from the markets, Alfred was expecting Matthew to drag him around, trying to lift his spirits, but by the end of the day the opposite proved true. The boy had molded back into his old life like perfect steel ironed out by a top-tier blacksmith. In the end, Alfred was the one dragging Matthew everywhere, roaming hand-in-hand from each knick-knack store to the next, showing off everything his inventive people had to offer to his brother. The two boys loved it, speeding past the humans, using their small bodies to their advantage as they scavenged, investigating every intriguing trinket that could catch their eye for more than a moment. This was their home, their people. A wild, unadulterated, bustling forest of people people wandering around the crowded streets of inner town.

After some bickering, Alfred managed to convince Matthew that buying another toy ball would be worth it. They could never not have enough of those, in his opinion. They bought it, much to Matthew’s mock dismay, from a lovely lady who worked with her two teenaged sons, roughly around the age of how Arthur appeared. It was simple, spherical and brown, filled up with some sort of grain crop and sewed together with delicate ease.

The two of them eventually found an open patch to play, nice and wide and green, with a few trees. It took a few moments to find, and now they were a good few minutes away from the bustling market center.

“It’s so quiet around here,” Matthew laughed. “This must be my part of town.”

Alfred rolled his eyes as he tossed the ball between his hands. “You realize the richer the part of town is, the quieter it is?”

“Yes, exactly,” he giggled. “As I said, my part of town.”

Alfred simply laughed at him, chucking the ball his way with no prior notice. Matthew managed to catch it only just, and he acted shocked, letting out a little fake gasp.

“That was mean of you!” Matthew cried out with a mischievous smile, throwing the ball back at full speed. Alfred yelped as he struggled to catch it between his arms, and it hit him square in the chest with a hefty _thunk_.

“Ay!” He squeaked, regaining his composure and ignoring the dull throbbing. _Damn,_ his little brother hit hard. He held the ball in his hands, looking around aggressively for a better comeback. He then thought to toss the ball upwards, catching it back in his hands again. “Hah! Bet you can’t catch this,” he laughed, tossing it above his head again and again. “Wow, Mattie. You’re getting really bad at this. I’m catching all of them!”

Mattie stood there for a moment, eyebrows furrowed as his cunning violet eyes went ablaze. In a sudden moment, he bulldozed straight into Alfred, who cried out as he pinned him down. As quick as the Colonies could, he chucked the ball upwards, watching it from the ground as he fell into a tree.

“Well…” He said on the ground under Matthew. “Shit.”

Mattie looked back behind him, towards the tree, then groaned. “Are you serious? Alfred!”

“I didn’t mean to!”

“How are we gonna get it down?”

“I don’t know!”

They scurried up from the ground and ran up to the tree. The ball was wedged between the branches up high. There was no way they could reach it by standing alone.

“We have to climb it,” Alfred stated the obvious as he began climbing. He looked down at Matthew, who looked uncertain, “You can stay down if you want.”

“I’ve climbed trees before, you know,” he whined, climbing after his brother. By the time he was half up, Alfred had already reached the ball and was heading back down, bumping straight into Matthew without seeing him. The boy cried out, and lost his grip, tumbling down and hitting a few branches along the way.

Alfred turned back, looking down with horror on his face. “Are you all right? Did you hit your head?”

“Umm… no? I think I’m fine,” He called out quietly while lying flat out on the ground. “But I think… I think a twig scratched me though.”

“Did it?” Alfred asked as he landed on the ground, leaning down to observe the damage. He cried out in shock as he got a good look at his arm. “Matthew! That’s more than a scratch!”

“Is it?” He said, dazed.

“Your whole arm is bleeding!” Alfred cried out as he picked him up and looked around desperately, finding a little shop in the corner. That would have to do. “Come on, we have to get you something to clean up with.”

They headed the way of the shop, Alfred guiding Matthew with a firm grip as he stumbled, still in shock. When they entered the room, Alfred could do nothing but look around in amazement as his mouth was held agape. They were in a little, tightly knit bookstore. He was right, this really was the richest part of town.

An angry head popped up from over a pile of books and papers. He was an old man, bloated. And he had a hat on indoors, something Alfred never understood. It looked like they had interrupted him from scribing down something down important, and he didn’t seem to appreciate it at all. He leaped up, approaching them with a ferocious stop of each foot.

“Get out, you meddling young hemps,” he snarled at them with great agitation, waving them out with a flick of the hand.

“Wait,” Alfred begged, hoping to gain pity. “It’s my brother. He’s hurt!” He showed the man the wound, and Matthew bowed his head down, embarrassed. “Do you have anything at all to help him?” He asked desperately.

The grumpy old grouch seemed to soften up, his eyes reflecting something akin to compassion and even familiarity. He sighed before waving them back into his shop. “Here, I have something here,” he said sadly, as if reliving old memories.

The old man had sat Matthew down, tending to his arm and wrapping bandages around it as the boy held his other arm to his mouth. He lectured the boys about being more careful, and rambled on about how young children never knew how to slow down and take it easy. Matthew was listening intently, and consistently apologizing, while Alfred was left to semi-listen, paying more attention to the towers of books and books stacked up on the shelves. He ran his newly bandaged up finger over each genre as be browsed the old man’s impressive collection, chuckling as he read all the golden-colored titles tinted onto their spines. It seemed that just about over half of them were about religion and divinity. There was no surprise there, God was a vital part of mostly everyone’s lives.

But then he reached a very small section of the store, right in the corner. _Philosophy,_ it read out. He tilted his head slowly in speculation, brushing his hand over the series of small books and essays, wondering ever so slightly. And _there it was_.

He pulled out one of them – one of John Locke’s book essays – and held it in his hand. This was what Arthur was reading. This was what inspired new ideas to churn in his head, what made him rant to Alfred day and night about the supposed rights of man. His passion, fueled by these books, had been what sparked Alfred’s innate desire for change.

He looked up, around the little bookstore in complete awe. How strange to find it here, found by the complete chance that Matthew would fall out of a tree. He looked down back at it, thinking long and hard as he opened it to the first page. Neat handwriting delicately wrote out the title for him, waiting patiently on the pages. Just for him, inviting him in. No, _luring_ him in and making him hunger for more.

He took a deep breath in. It was about time he actually read it for himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YES! And there is the last of 1765...
> 
> i really need to get myself an editor ; ^ ;


	12. The year was 1770

He was floating down a calm river. The mossy rocks he passed as he flowed were as far as his eyes could see, and anything past that was black, and empty figment from within his mind. Instead, his attention was fixated on the stars above him and the feeling of the water gushing around him. Some stars ran from others, some for their lives, others playing tag with their friends. Children worked hard; their parents worked harder. Some stars would disappear suddenly, and then the water that flowed over his heart would run cold as its surrounding stars began grieving them.

Sometimes it was frightening to meditate, especially when he could feel his people getting more and more angry and vicious and bitter over the years. This was not how he wanted them to be, it wasn’t, but no matter how hard he tried, nothing could ever cool down that steaming burst of water that would strike him up the side whenever a riot would uprise.

Things have been getting harder, life was getting harder, and the people from within his stars were blazing up in a heated fury more and more every day. The government was growing relentless, troops were treading all over town, the situation was slowly devolving, and the people were getting more rowdy, too.

Alfred shook his head. _No_ , this wasn’t why he was here. Meditation was supposed to be his thing – it was supposed to be fun, freeing, loving and kind. Constructive and insightful; a way to connect with his people and bring them a voice. But he knew he had no power to do that for now. So why would he waste his time merely sitting and sweating and fretting over the harsh feelings if he could do nothing about it? He just needed something else to focus on, just for now. Just for him. It was all he could do to stay sane.

His eyes scurried over the sea of stars, stopping as he felt the water wrap around him in a tight embrace. He felt himself immediately relax as he was watching a young couple dance among the stars, the lady in a pretty blue ballroom down and the man dressed all dapper and sweet. They held each other tightly as they danced, and Alfred felt it so tender around his torso. He blushed at the intimate feeling of it all, almost overwhelmed as he gasped and grasped at the butterflies that appeared within the water around him. He knew they were in love, and he reached out to touch them, yet the sound of footsteps from afar forced them further away, deeper into the cosmic mist of his mind.

Alfred paused, confused and slightly concerned as the footsteps grew louder, taking him away from his river as the feeling of the comfy outdoor couch under him and the refreshing outside air returned him to his senses. He opened his eyes to the sound of a familiar voice speaking softly with an amused and playful tone. “Oi, budge over.”

“Arthur,” he whispered in reply as he blinked lazily and looked into the nation’s gorgeous green eyes. He flashed a big dumb smile as he giggled and shuffled over, still feeling quite static after his return from meditation. The sense of overwhelming love and security still followed him too, and he tried his best to straighten himself out and conceal it, feeling embarrassed as he pulled at his clothes and bushed himself off quickly. He then looked up to his companion, slightly flustered, and laughed as confidently as he could. “Well, look who’s out of their office for once!”

Arthur smiled brightly before thwacking the boy’s shoulder with the papers in his hand. “That is uncouth, you unlicked cub.”

“Well, the only bear around here to lick me is you, so if you want me fixed up you’ll have to be the one to lick me,” Alfred shot back without thinking, feeling both embarrassed and smug for what he said.

Arthur scoffed, taking it humorously, “that is disgusting. I am not licking you.” He chuckled as he sat down beside him, and Alfred perked up and turned his whole body to fully face the Briton.

“Then I shall remain unlicked,” Alfred laughed as he leaned into him and poked his tongue out. “And you will have to deal with it forever.”

Arthur hummed. “I see then… I shall have to find a bear and put it into a pen. Then I could throw you into it so it can teach you the lesson and not me.”

“Arthur!” Alfred gasped and slapped him as the elder boy continued to laugh. “That is cruel!”

Arthur ignored his comments. “Did you have a good sleep?” He asked amused. “You were dozing for quite a while, I believe.”

Alfred huffed, rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. “I wasn’t sleeping. I was meditating.”

“Ahh,” Arthur said as he looked down at his feet. He leaned into the couch and then looked up at the clear sky as his mind wandered for a moment. “Was it lovely, as usual?” He asked melancholicaly.

Alfred nodded quietly. “Yes,” he said softly, letting his arms fall to his sides. “It was. I felt like I was floating down a river in the woods this time. I was looking up to the stars and I could see everybody. There were so many of them and they were all so bright, it lit up the whole river!”

Arthur sighed loudly, sounding relaxed and deep in thought. “Your mind always takes you to the most beautiful places to meditate. But not me, I always just stay where I am. Instead I get…” He paused, leaning upwards, as if debating whether to continue or not.

“You get?” Alfred asked, intrigued.

Arthur looked at him for a long while, watching his eyes intently as if he were analyzing every aspect of them. He tensed up, then relaxed. Then he tensed up again, then relaxed. When he finally spoke, his voice was strained. “I get…” He stopped, looking unsure.

“It’s all right,” Alfred butted in. “You don’t have to tell me.”

“No, I… I want to. I have just…” He sighed, “I have never told anybody else before, the way mine are, I mean. It is something… personal to me.”

“Oh,” Alfred smiled dumbly. For some reason his heart began to race. “Well, if you really want to…”

Arthur laughed finally, making his decision. “I get fairies,” he said certainly and suddenly with a little nod.

Alfred paused, shocked. But that soon turned to enthrallment. “Really?” Alfred asked as an even broader smile spread across his face, “fairies?” That sounded so exciting, and mystical. It also sounded just like something Arthur would have for his meditation. “How does that work?”

“They visit me.”

Alfred blinked, his eyes wide and his mouth agape. He knew very little about other personifications' meditation. He had been told the experience could differ somewhat between one or two nations, but he didn’t know its entire dynamic could change so completely like in the way that Arthur had just described it. It had always been the outside world that had changed for Alfred. He always changed in places and location. Different heavens - and very rarely; sometimes hell. Sometimes he would see nothing, just black all around as if he were doing something as simple and ununique as closing his eyes. But never would he ever dream of something _external_ coming up to him and showing him something the same way a fairy or anything else so mystical or made up would do. It was something utterly foreign, entirely alien, and completely unheard of before in Alfred's eyes.

“Not just the fairies, though,” Arthur continued describing his different world with a content smile on his face. How peaceful and blissful he looked, Alfred could tell the meant a lot to him. “The elves visit me too, and… the pixies and beasts and ogres and dragons, and so many others I cannot name. Sometimes I get some famous ghosts stand by me too.” Alfred gasped at that last bit, feeling tense as Arthur blushed and smiled softly at him, “no need to fret, most of them are benign.”

He chucked as he regained some confidence, rubbing Alfred’s upper arm to soothe the younger boy’s nerves at any mention of the dead. “They’re not evil. Herne the Hunter is rather kind to me. However, whenever I do see him it usually results in some sort of military disaster for the near future. Thus I… do not really jump for joy when I see his face around.”

Alfred laughed at that, feeling slightly better as he watched Arthur’s eyes light up, feeling a warm flutter bloom from within his heart. The nation began describing different ghosts and beings and critters and creatures, all of whom would approach him and talk to him, bringing him company and gossiping about his peoples’ lives. He said they would sprinkle something on him, maybe magic dust, maybe something else, and then he would feel the very emotions and memories the people they were talking about had been experiencing. There was a wild sense of excitement in his eyes that Alfred had never seen before, and it lightened up his heart to hear him open up so much about it and trust him. He described fantastical beasts and adorable animals, one even recurring throughout his speech. He described it as his most longest lasting companion; a bunny with wings and green fur and smelt exactly like mint. The wonder of it all was just incredible to Alfred.

“Are these where you get all your stories from?” He asked. “From your meditations?”

Arthur pondered it for a moment before shrugging his shoulders. “I suppose so. All my stories have all been inspired by them in one way or another.”

Alfred shook his head, mesmerized. “How?” He asked breathless. “How – for one second – could you think that my world is in any way better than yours? Yours sounds _so_ amazing!” He paused for a moment with a little blush. “Your world is amazing,” he whispered.

Arthur smiled softly as looked down and fiddled with the paper he had rolled up hands. “Thank you,” he whispered with great emotion, as if he were ashamed to reveal his unique form of meditation. Alfred frowned out of concern. Maybe what he experienced was abnormal among nations. It would be a good reason not to ever tell anyone about it.

Arthur unrolled the tube of paper in his hands. He was so immersed in his speech he had used it as a pointer do help describe everything to Alfred, and he had forgotten the whole reason he had left his office in the first place. The little ritual they did together every month.

“Trade?” he asked as he held it out to Alfred.

The younger boy gleamed. “Oh yes, a trade!” He giggled as he leaned over the tea table, grabbing the monthly letter Matthew had written for them and chucking the rock he’d used as the paperweight back into the garden. “Here you go!” He sung as he took Arthur’s paper and handed over the read-through letter.

“Thank you,” Arthur said as he began reading, leaving Alfred alone out in the garden side porch to go through all of England’s top-secret political updates.

He skimmed over the paper, eyeing the freshly written date on the top of the page. March 4th, 1770. Alfred smiled; he always adored the way Arthur wrote his sevens. _No,_ he shook his head, _you gotta read this. Come on, stop stalling._

He began with the first paragraph, letting his eyes buzz over a lump of big words he couldn’t care less for, stopping only when there was some coherence in the paragraph at large:

_The Government has demanded an increased stationing of troops within the Province of Massachusetts Bay due to heightened hostility displayed from colonists. Unpopular Parliamentary legislation progressively more difficult to enforce thus more crown-appointed officials have been requested in aid of legal implementation._

Alfred rolled his eyes. This tension probably came from all those stupid ass Townshend Acts. But they peaked back in 1768, and that was a good couple of years ago... Couldn’t those idiots see by now that the only thing they were succeeding in doing was making everything a whole lot more worse than it needed to be? The crazy Acts were enforced as a _response_ to the boycotts from all those taxes on stuff like paper and paint and tea and literally anything that came from across the Atlantic. Anything. It was a never-ending spiral, and it made Alfred feel like shit. It made his people feel like shit. It made him feel like he meant nothing to those who lived back in Britain, and that his people were nothing to them either. But meanwhile, on the other hand, Arthur was _everything_ to him. He would do anything for England. So how could his government treat him like this? It didn’t make any sense. And it hurt his heart too much to find reason.

At least he could take comfort in the fact that Arthur’s report summaries was always written with neutrally in mind. Arthur never agreed nor disagreed with whatever voices he found himself writing down; he simply documented the facts to keep for himself and share with Alfred. It reassured the boy that he was reading a reliable truth.

Although, something he certainly did take discomfort in was the fact that Arthur's reports of uncivilized uproar were increasing in intensity. The hostility and violence from the recent boycotts recorded - the screaming riots, the shouting family feuds and an abundance of abuse and harassment have all brought upon a great sense of unease unto Alfred's mind. Where any small snap of fear felt from his people during mediation could trigger a shattering so intense it would force him to cease. He loathed how it could severe his connection with his people - his life force. But most of all, he loathed the reasons why they were feeling those fears in the first place.

It was one of the reasons they chose to flee to North Carolina, of all provinces in the New World to choose from. Arthur in particular had always adored this house, far away from foreign affairs, nice and peaceful and oblivious. So it was a nice thing to return. It was rural enough to be safe, and populated enough to know what was still going on in the world without any of the King’s men spotting them and forcing them out on the run again. It was calm and clean and it was quiet, and they weren't forced to share it with any unwanted guests. Just the two of them alone, yet still very much together. It was something the both of them so desperately needed.

For five years, they had been living there, just the two of them, and it was so good to live there. Their return could be best described as fun and flighty. When they arrived, the garden they sat right in front of had almost surrounded the backside of the building. Everything was overgrown and wild. It took a few of years for them to fix it up together, and it was great entertainment. It became their method of spending time together. After a long day of Arthur working and Alfred cleaning, they would get together and cut off bushes, plant new seeds and throw dirt at each other… Or at least Alfred would throw dirt at Arthur and he would run around chasing him and shouting. Angry, but free and happy.

Until they finished the garden in late ’68. Things got more tense as more troops stormed Alfred’s shores. Arthur got more aggressive as he shuffled through all his notes, aggravated by the work that would just pile up again and again. Alfred started feeling lonely, and he would find himself reading some more. Arthur would give him money to grow his collection, encouraging his new hobby even further, yet he would spend it not on novels as his colonizer thought but instead on manifestos and debates about divine rights.

Alfred sighed. He desperately desired a chance to show them all to Arthur, to see what he thought, to change his mind and then finally let them live together forever with their Charter and their voices heard and no King and no taxes and no fighting. He knew it was possible, he knew what Arthur was like and he knew what he believed in. It could be done, and then they could be angry but free and happy forever. But that was for another time.

He bowed his head back into the letter, wondering what would make of the second paragraph. He stopped short in complete and utter shock over the first sentence.

“France is coming here? In three days?” He asked as he shoved the paper down to his hips to get a good look of Arthur, his mouth open wide and brows furrowed firmly in concern, which quickly turned into a panicked realization. “Oh shit!”

Arthur looked up from Matthew’s letter, his eyes bulging wide as he suddenly realized the same thing. “Well shove me into an eternity box,” he said soullessly, concern evident in his eyes. “They are going to be here at the same time.”

Matthew always made the highest effort to visit them at least twice a year. Living several Colonies away, they had to manage a frequent yet non-too-frequent method of seeing each other. Eventually they settled on Matthew moving back and forth with Missy taking care of the house.

Oh yeah, Missy. Alfred recalled the fight they had long ago. Was it even a fight? He couldn’t remember properly. All that filled his memory of her was the several Christmases they had spent together making everything work again. Any tension between them was long gone, and Alfred found himself enjoying her company more and more over the few times he'd seen her over the years. It was such a shame Arthur had decided to make them keep at a distance. But he was right, they couldn’t afford her noticing them never ageing into proper adulthood, especially after knowing each other for five whole years. It was bad enough explaining why Matthew was stuck in his own thirteen-year-old trance. Maybe that’s just the way he looks, as Matthew argued, or maybe that was God’s intention, as Arthur declared, or maybe he was a very very late bloomer, as Alfred had teasingly stated. Maybe it was even a curse, as Missy had joked once.

Alfred couldn’t help but laugh at that one. A curse, a demon. She knew they weren’t demons, and she never judged, and that was enough for him. She was right, he recalled what she told him long ago, they were on the same side. They were all just trying to survive in this harsh world. They were all hardworking, they all pulled their weight. Yeah, in the end, he was glad Matthew brought her kind soul into their lives, especially with her Godsent supper skills. After all, those dishes made him realize just how bad Arthur’s cooking really was... But he would never tell the English nation that. It would hurt his feelings too much, and more importantly, it would insult him and his title as the King of all baking, and who knew how long it would take for him to get over it and bake for Alfred again. Now, Alfred couldn't have that! He loved Arthur’s pastries almost as much as he loved his handwriting.

Like the handwriting on the charter they wrote, the very one she protected. Missy had made a beautiful frame for their dear declaration of rights, the timber she picked out and built with Matthew as a Christmas gift in ’66. He remembered crying as they showed it to him and Arthur together, and he remembered the crack in the Empire’s voice when he thanked them. They originally encouraged the boys to frame it in their Carolina house, but it was too big to travel with. So they settled to keep it in New England, and Missy and Mattie guarded it well. It was fun choosing a spot to put it up, and he remembered the high spirits in the air as he hung it up with Missy's help and the cheerful clapping and encouragement from the two boys behind them. They chatted about the politics it represented, and Alfred found himself surprised and excited by how much he and Missy perceived and agreed over the document.

So yes, she was a dear lady, and a dear friend. He trusted her with the house, and they would leave it in her safe hands as Matthew came down through the South to visit them. He would arrive always on the exact date he would say, and they would enjoy each other’s company, catch up, lean new tips and tricks and skills, and go out on walks and enjoy the sights of North Carolinian nature. Things always worked out perfectly. They had a system. They always had a great time.

But now Canada and France were both coming at the same time. France was no doubt coming over on business, and how he found out where England was residing, Alfred had no idea. It made him suspicious, and it made him angry.

France, the one who abandoned Canada, and left Quebec after a mere hour of battle. France, the man who’s name still hurt his dear little brother to hear. France, the who had been seething and soured so much after the Seven Year’s War that he made his way across the Atlantic once again to storm in Alfred’s house, Matthew’s safe space, and demand to see Arthur’s presence back when they were still at sea returning from the Lodge.

 _God dammit, why?_ Alfred tensed up as he bit his lip, holding out his hand in the hopes that Arthur would reach out and grab it. He struggled to keep a straight face as he wondered what the hell France wanted to talk about. He scowled as he felt a stupid headache settle in. How in the damn hell was all this gonna turn out?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haza! Onto a new year, my dear friends. And five years into the future at that! I wonder if they've made flying cars yet...
> 
> For anybody interested in all the tax acts and boycott info and location stuff that led to the revolution, for this chapter in particular I used these two resources mainly (along with a few others but I lost the links big oof):  
> [Here](http://www.loc.gov/teachers/classroommaterials/presentationsandactivities/presentations/timeline/amrev/brittwo/brittwo.html) and [good old wikipedia because we can trust that :))))](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Province_of_Massachusetts_Bay)
> 
> Also, the Quebec battle Alfred is referring to is the [Battle of the Plains of Abraham](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_the_Plains_of_Abraham)  
> But be careful, Alfie... while I know Hetalia portrayed it as a comedic betrayal of Canada's self worth, you might be a bit too quick judging Francis when it comes to reality...
> 
> Thank you for reading <3


	13. The year was 1770

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *tw; mentions of abuse/blood/violence  
> at this point just assume every chapter's got something twisted...

Alfred stood still as he watched the retched man throw things around the room. Cymbals clashed in his ears as stuff shattered on impact with the walls. Wood splintered. The world blurred.

He was still. Alert yet still. Trembling yet moveless. Fleeting yet set in stone. He looked around the small dense room, eyes darting around without tilting his head. It was still so sore from last time. He wondered why he was there again. He watched his King in a trance. Not too long now…

He blinked and it all was gone. Or was it? He didn’t know. He was far too tired to process what he had seen. He was far too alert to recognize anything else but threat in front of him. He couldn’t breathe properly. It was happening all again. He should have known given the looming arms over him. It scared him how shocking yet familiar it felt at the same time. God, there was so much strain around his neck… His ears started aching. It hurt so much. Tears finally began to fall as he gurgled out a cry and succumbed to a wild and fearful struggle.

His heart raced as the King began to lift him off the ground like a doll possessed. He rose up out of bed, scrambling and heaving for air as he gripped the blanket tight. He panted loudly as he started to rock back and forth, blinking rapidly as his eyesight returned to him. He stopped as he looked to his side; Arthur’s half of the bed was empty – all that remained were some neatly tucked sheets.

“Shit,” he whispered, running his hands through his hair. He leaned his head back until it hit the wall by the bed front with a heavy _thunk._ He groaned as he hid his eyes with his hands, clawing at his skin in an effort to overpower the sheer embarrassment that had hit him. Those dreams didn’t happen so often anymore. He had spent far more time in North Carolina than he ever did at Richmond, anyway. He shouldn’t be having them. He shouldn’t. They were so long ago. He remembered, once, back when they left, that Arthur had advised him to let it go. To forgive himself. He hadn’t. He couldn’t. He just… he just couldn’t.

Not when he still felt so helpless to it all.

He lifted his head, and sat up, grumbling about his poor morning state. He brushed the excess mucus from out of his eyes and scrambled to get the blankets off of him. He looked back to Arthur’s spot. His dear Magna Arthur, his great big bear who would always protect him. He wanted to just curl up and cuddle him. To feel safe and sound beside him. He frowned as he wondered how on God’s good Earth that nation could keep it all up without crumbling.

“Alfred!” Arthur’s proud voice suddenly boomed from another room, “Look how good I am at gardening!” Happy laughter grew louder as the British Empire waltzed in through the wide-open door. “Look at how well my flowers have bloomed, and we still have about two weeks until spring equinox!”

He was dressed well, clean and classy – his beaming grin bearded by a sea of pink and purple flowers. His eyes were locked on them, watching them and their dazzling shiny waves of petals with such an expression of love Alfred was certain he could see the ocean in them. They were pretty. And he was beautiful.

Alfred looked down at his hands, fidgeting with them as he sat quietly on the bed, trying to quieten his sad sniffles before he noticed. He failed, and to his horror, an accidental whimper escaped him. He cringed before looking up again, seeing Arthur’s now afflicted expression.

“Are you alright?” He asked softly, approaching him with concern.

Alfred threw a hand out and swiped at the air before him. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he brushed him off. He wanted him closer. “I… I just had a dream.”

“Did you?” He asked sadly, the flowers drooping under his frown. “Was it bad?”

“Yeah.” Alfred blinked sadly. Arthur tried to take a step towards him as he turned away, trying to keep himself from crying. But tears still fell. _Damn it all…_

“Oh, Alfred…”

He began heaving again, however instead of being forced to fight for air he was fighting his own sobbing. He rubbed his neck angrily as the stinging sensation refused to leave him. The memories just refused to leave him. His body just refused to forget it. And it all just overwhelmed him. Why did it have to hurt him so? Why couldn’t he be big and strong and immune like Arthur? Why could he walk away but Alfred couldn’t?

“I wish!” He yelled out suddenly as he reached out for Arthur, who was now kneeling on the bed before him, brushing his hand over Alfred’s trying to pry it off his neck. He hadn’t realized he had been squeezing it. He just wished he was immune from it too. “I wish they had killed me!”

“No, you don’t.”

“I wish they have!”

_“No.”_

“They should have!” If only they had, then he would have known what it was like. It wouldn’t have shocked him so much.

“They?” Arthur asked, breathlessly bewildered. “Who’s they?”

“They should have hung me!” Alfred continued, half delusional. “If they had hung me, I would be used to it…” He cried out as he clawed at his own neck again. The burning, swelling sensation just wouldn’t stop. It just wouldn’t stop!

“Alfred, whatever are you talking about?” Arthur asked, the concerned look in his eyes piercing his very soul. He grabbed his hand and forced it from his neck again.

“I was accused of witchcraft…” He blurted out. His mind was running wild with old memories from times long repressed. “When you were away… they tried to hang me,” he whispered while looking away. He couldn’t meet his eyes. Those wide, hawkish eyes were too much. “They hit me too,” he cried out. “They beat me too... They thought I was in league with the Devil! But I’m not! I’m not! I managed to run away before they hung me, and they didn’t strangle me… I got away...”

Arthur’s energy turned from cold concern to hot anger within seconds. Without even looking, he could feel the heat from his racing mind, scratching and scrambling like a starved cat, searching for a possible answer for why. “Who?” He hissed, “the bloody Puritans?”

“Yes!” he sobbed out as he pushed Arthur away as far as he could. “I never… I never died!” He yelled out to Arthur, to God, to whoever could hear. It was so unfair. Why did he have to suffer so much? “Maybe if I died too then I would be more like you! You never seem so fazed –”

“No.” Arthur tensed up before him, grabbing his chin and forcing their eyes to lock. He shook his head sternly. _“Don’t_ _think like that,_ Alfred. It is one thing to soothe yourself with lies, but to torture yourself with them is abhorrent. I will not allow that, not here. Not ever.”

He let his hand fall from his chin and rest on the bed, and his whole body began to relax. His eyes softened as his expression turned tender. His other hand had been gripping the flower stems tight, and as he noticed he finally let them loosen. “Here,” he said with a small smile, handing over his beautiful blooming flowers to Alfred. “For your happiness.”

The boy paused before taking them. The sudden flutter in his heart had silenced him, shocked him, as his tears seized to fall. He looked deeply into Arthur’s kind eyes. Those emerald orbs seemed almost hurt with what he had said. They were so beautiful, so kind. And Alfred had hurt him. How could he mess up so much?

He remembered, way back then, hating the fact he couldn’t help Arthur. He hated watching him take all the blows, always bleeding out for him, even if he didn’t deserve it. He hated it all. He had tried to forget that hate. He tried to forgive his resentment, as Arthur had said. But five years later, and he was still hating himself. And this time, instead of hating himself for not helping, he was hating himself for not getting over the pain like Arthur did. But that look in his eyes, that sad, dark, looming look. Was Arthur really over the pain? Had he really made himself blind to Arthur’s suffering all because he was so trapped in hating himself? _Oh… oh God no…_ He almost couldn’t stand the thought of it.

He looked at Arthur for a long, slow, silent moment. “How are you taking it?” He whispered, dejected and sad. It was so unfair. Its been five years now, and Arthur was always helping him. But he was never helping Arthur.

“I…” The empire sighed. For one of the few times in his life, Alfred saw his eyes shimmer with age and fragility. How old and weary his dear Magna Arthur looked now. “I manage to take it day by day,” he said softly, slowly, looking into Alfred’s wide blue eyes with a kindly, delicate expression. As delicate and sweet as the flowers he bought in. The flowers he had grown himself. “I am thankful for the small things I see every day. I make small promises to myself that I know I can fulfill.” He reached out to hold Alfred’s free hand, who took it quickly and held it firm. “If I must be honest,” he chuckled nervously. “I would say most of the time… I find myself leaning… on _you_.”

Alfred’s heart began racing, however for a completely different reason for what woke him up. He had no idea Arthur relied on him too. He felt his checks grow hot, and he nervously looked down, trying to conceal a ridiculously dumb smile. He thought of leaning forward. He thought of touching him. Hugging him.... and feeling how his lips felt against his. Or whipping himself for thinking such a thing. Arthur was his friend. And a male. _Almost_ like a brother, if a human were to judge him. He blinked rapidly as he stared intently at the nightstand. It was painted a lovely white.

“Oh,” he finally replied, dumbly.

Arthur merely chuckled as he began to stand up from the bed. He didn’t let himself dwell on it.

“Right,” he said in a more chipper mood. The type when he’s rousing everybody up, really eager to get from A to B as quick as he can. It made Alfred laugh to hear it. “I came in here to wake you for breakfast. It is about time we start preparing it.”

Alfred giggled and smiled sweetly at the flowers, still blushing like a bride, “yeah.” He smiled brighter as a spark of joy flashed through him, “I’d like that.” He took in a deep, deep breath, breathing in the scent of the flowers. They were sweet, well-pollinated, and fluffy. He giggled as he grabbed the remaining blankets scrunched up on the bed and threw them off in a great release. He jumped brightly out the bed, following Arthur through to the kitchen with a little skip in his step and fresh flowers in his hands.

He ran his tongue over his lips, noticing no ulcers caused from his retched dreaming. Proud he hadn’t bitten his lip in years, he took another deep breath in, letting his lungs do their work they were now so free to do. It was exhilarating! Invigorating! The tension left him at once.

He couldn’t help but beam at the new thought popping into his head; _we are free... I can breathe!_

.

.

It took them a few moments to prepare their breakfast together. They worked like busy bees in the kitchen, working side by side to create their wondrous dishes. A wild crowd of two, bickering and tossing ingredients at each other, but most of all smiling and joking around as they spilled stuff and poured plenty. Alfred had put their flowers into an elegant vase, placing it on the bench where they ate, filling it with the clear, fresh water from the creek down their house.

“I suppose it is not the same we used to have, back there.” Arthur rolled his eyes as he sat back in his chair and swirled the water in his cup. They had felt so reminiscent that morning, it seemed. “No chocolate here…” He looked at his water and smiled cockily. “And no beer… just water.”

“At least we have clear water here!” Alfred laughed at he munched on his homemade bread. “Hey, I say” – he mumbled more while still munching on his food, earning an eyeroll from Arthur – “If you want to drink chocolate, all I have to do is go outside and mix some mud into that cup you got there for you.”

“That is disgusting!” Arthur jokingly gasped. “But then again, it would not really be so different from your average cooking, anyway,” he chuckled as he flicked some of water out of his cup and onto Alfred.

The boy squealed and jumped up, laughing loudly before walking over to grab the kitchen bucket. “How dare you!” He giggled as he picked it up, preparing for fire.

Arthur jumped up too, holding his hands out in front of him. “Alfred, no!” He laughed.

He experimented, tilting the bucket at different angles to see the best way to throw all the water out. “It only takes around an hour and a half for me to walk all the way down to that creek and back – and I enjoy that walk! I can do it all again today…” He huffed as he swung it back slowly. “So don’t think I won’t hesitate!”

“All right, all right!” Arthur smiled as he sat back down, his hands still in the air. “I apologize for my statements and actions.”

“Really? Why?”

“Because they were brash, unexpected, dishonorable and unaccounted for.”

“Good.” Alfred smiled cheekily with a nod before sitting down and biting back into his bread. He tensed his face as if it were sour upon hearing its strange crunch. He was so hungry he hadn’t noticed it before. “I think we should find a truce, however.”

“Really?” Arthur smirked, mocking Alfred’s earlier tone. “Why?”

“Because Mattie really is the better cook out of the three of us,” he said it quickly.

“I agree,” Arthur replied immediately. And they left it at that.

Alfred poked at his food, moving it around on the plate. “Matthew is coming over around now, isn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think he will arrive tomorrow?”

“Maybe.”

“I hope he comes over sooner rather than later. I miss him.”

“Yes, I miss him too.”

Alfred poked his food too hard, and some of it bounced off from the plate and fell splat on the floor. He blinked at it a couple of times in stupid shock before hopping up to go clean it. “So, you read his last letter? How do you think it's all going up there?” He shouted out from across the room, hoping to distract Arthur from his mess.

Arthur noticed it immediately. He drummed his fingers across the table, watching Alfred closely as he grabbed a cleaning cloth from behind the counter. “I believe he was mentioning something about a man?” He questioned, looking down on Alfred as he cleaned, seemingly satisfied with his work.

“Yeah,” Alfred said as he scrubbed, feeling all fuzzy from the strange looks he was giving him. “Mattie said he took some interest in Missy. He mentioned he was handsome.” He chuckled nervously, still finding himself feeling like a deer being hunted. He shocked himself to find he was almost liking it. “I wonder if anything will happen…”

Arthur threw his head back as he laughed. “Only time will tell, I suppose.”

.

.

It was very late in the afternoon, very close to the evening. The whole day had been dedicated to them, and it made Alfred so pleased. So much time, Arthur had spent in his office. But today, now, he was dedicating himself to time with his Colonies. They had danced, and spun round to the sounds of Arthur’s violin and their singing voices, playing folk tunes and trying to replicate century old orchestra pieces they only ever got to hear once, decades ago.

Eventually they moved to the square piano. Alfred’s specialty. He could play it without it squeaking or scratching, which he always made the violin sound when he tried it. Meanwhile, to him at least, piano was just button, button, button. Great fun, perfect sound… When it was tuned. His dear Carolina piano had become one of his greatest joys over the past five years, and not only because he could play it so well.

Arthur couldn’t play it. He didn’t know how to. When Alfred would try to teach him, it would lead to disaster, funny disaster and good times, but disaster nonetheless. Eventually, he gave up and returned to his violin only. However, that was the thing that made the piano so special for Alfred. When he played it, he played it well. He could think of tunes up on the spot. He could lure Arthur out of his room when he impressed him with something so delicate, or so proud, or so jovial or so sad. It was an instrument indeed, one that made Alfred a siren, and the square piano became his voice. He loved it so.

He chuckled as he began a new rhythm. After playing it on repeat a couple of times, he turned to Arthur, who sat beside him, smiling sweetly and blissfully as he listened to the upbeat tunes.

“So… do you like this one? How does it sound?” He asked as he smiled at the keys.

Arthur chuckled, raising his head up. “It is bight, playful, cherry… And it sounds with a dash of a small scandal.”

Alfred laughed as he bounced his hands up and down and over the piano, trilling his fingers and working hard to make sweet sounds omit from the little square box of an instrument. He paused before turning back to Arthur, a bright broad smile gleaming and a brand-new idea for a game in his head.

“Hey,” he said excitedly, “how about I play something new… and you can make a story out of it!”

Arthur laughed softly, resting his hand on Alfred’s shoulder. “Very well then. Show me the best you’ve got!”

Alfred smiled as he resumed playing, bouncy and cheerful. The sounds reminded him of a young woman winking mischievously at a man working hard from across the road. He laughed to himself as he wondered what the hell Arthur would choose to say.

“A fair lady was dancing while at the ball, there she caught sight of a wondrous man.” Arthur smiled wide as he began to think up a plot from the top of his head. “A damn shame his accent had drawn from Gaul, as from that place she was not a fan. He offered her father a thousand pounds –”

“Woah! That’s a lot!” Alfred cried as he continued to throw his fingers at random keys. Somehow, their new song sounded surprisingly good.

“He said ‘love, I could buy you a thousand gowns’! She said ‘I want none! I want none! Or my whole life is done! Do you not hear, dear Father, that he is French? I could not stand to live with such a terr’ble stench!’” Arthur sung out with a tremendous laugh. “Look, I even made it rhyme!” He cried out as he shook Alfred’s shoulder, as if he were the funniest man in the world.

Alfred gasped at him as he chuckled, lifting his fingers from the piano to shove his companion lightly, “Arthur!” He cried out as he tried to stifle his giggling. “That’s mean!”

“I cannot help it,” he said while smirking, “that the truth is apparently ‘mean’.”

“But…” Alfred blinked, trying not to be rude to a man who was not even present. “Every country with a big city tends to stink over time!” He didn’t have the heart to say he thought London smelt rotten too, at least while he was there at the center of it all.

“Yes, but at least at my house, I use incense.” Oh. Did he? Alfred never noticed…

“I’m sure France uses it too.” He had never been to France’s house, and he never planned to go, but he was sure it wasn’t that bad…

“Oh,” Arthur laughed with a sneer. “He most certainly does not! Well, at least not in Paris, I can say that for bloody certain.”

Alfred shook his head, smiling widely as he looked away. He had no idea how to respond to that.

“So, does that mean he will stink my house out?” He tried to joke. He didn’t know if he liked how that sounded for him and his lovely precious house.

Arthur smirked. “Maybe. But I am sure your fresh air will be able to combat his horrible scent. Your land has always been so rich and fruitful. There is no reason for concern.” He smiled as he wrapped his arm around him again, pulling him close.

“Couldn’t you have sent him away? Then we could have had our time together with Matthew in peace.” He mumbled into his shoulder.

“No, I do apologize.” Arthur sighed, suddenly seeming exasperated with the idea of dealing with France. “I could not find an adequate enough excuse to dismiss his self-invitation, so we must make do.”

“How did he even find us anyway?”

“Oh, he has his ways. I would rather not speak of him, if you would let it be. Please.”

Alfred nodded curtly, suddenly feeling a little queasy. He blinked, leaned forward a bit, yet it didn’t do anything to alleviate the pain. Pain? Sharp, sharp stinging pain! Oh God, he was in pain. He clenched his fists and he bent forward in front of the piano, wheezing from the shock and the stinging sensation in his gut. He held his hands spread out before him, watching them anxiously and feeling ever so shaky.

“Arthur…” he whispered. “I feel… I don’t feel –”

He couldn’t finish his sentence before vomiting over the keyboard. Arthur gasped and stood up, holding him up before he fell to the ground. His head rolled up, then back down, and was exposed to his own mess. It was _red_. Bright _red_ , a fierce bright _red_. And he could taste blood. He gripped Arthur so tight his knuckles went white. His gut felt like it was exploding, like it was all going to come undone and pour out of him, _seep_ out of him. He wailed as he shivered under Arthur’s arms.

“Where does it hurt?” He asked loudly. Alfred wondered how many times he asked that before he heard to.

“Boston!” He yelped out as he crumbled down to the floor, Arthur instinctively resting his head down safely and propping him up to be comfortable.

“Alright. All right. It is all right.” Arthur said quickly to himself and ensured Alfred was sitting upright before leaning down and speaking to him, holding his hands tight. “I am going to get some supplies for you, alright? I will be back in a few moments, understand me?”

Alfred blinked, barely processing his words. He cried out as he felt Arthur leave, holding his hand out and clutching at the air for him desperately as he continued to spurt out blood. It ran out of his mouth, down his cheeks and throat, pouring out onto the floor. It stung. It all stung. Too much. He felt like bending over into a ball and screaming at the top of his lungs, but he couldn’t find the strength to even move. Everything just flowed out. He felt souls flow out of him. Like his own spirit was being evicted. It was excruciating. And lonely. And he was beyond petrified.

“Here!” Arthur shouted out as he ran up to him again, returning fast to blurring vision. “I am here again!” He sounded so frantic, almost as desperate as Alfred himself. He wiped him down with some sort of cloth and water, and rubbed his shoulders to bring him some comfort.

“How is it? Can you describe it to me?” He asked loudly.

“I think… I think people are being shot!”

Arthur sat there blankly for a few moments, watching him intently as his eyes darted around, looking at his face. “I think I feel it too…” He whispered, unmoving and wide-eyed.

Alfred began shivering out of fear. There was just too much red around. There was too much fear around. He couldn’t take it. There was no place to escape to, no place to run to. He tried to close his eyes, to maybe escape into meditation, and –

“No! NO!” Arthur gripped his shoulders almost painfully tight as he forcefully pulled him back into the realm of the living. “Do not do that! Never do that if you already feel your people without meditation! It will be too much for you, it will overload you!”

His horrified cries scared Alfred more, and be began to cry with eyes wide open as he leaned in for Arthur’s touch. It was all he had left. Meditation was supposed to be a safe space! It was supposed to be his! And he wasn’t allowed to reach it… And there was so much red everywhere… He felt like he was going mad! He had no idea what to do, or where to go… All he had left was to clutch onto England tightly.

“Oh God,” he heard the young empire whisper. “This is going to be highly publicized.”

It was like that for a few minutes, or maybe even hours. Alfred could no longer tell. It was sometime into the night, and all their light came from a few candles. He couldn’t remember when or if Arthur had lit them. All he could remember was the sensation of sharp, stinging pain, and the feeling of having his people stripped from his very own soul. He was losing _people_. He lost people every day, but this… he was losing a whole group of them. And it made a lot of others mad too. And others were mad that others were mad. And it all just built up and up until the whole of Boston was fuming with rage and the whole of Massachusetts was fuming with rage Alfred filled up with hopelessness and resentment and pain and revenge and…

And Alfred was so tired. He was so tired, so, so tired. Yet he still never lost the energy needed to cling to Arthur for dear life. For the dear life he was losing. The dear life he had already lost, and it horrified him to think that he knew exactly why and exactly how and exactly where it all happened and he could feel it all so clearly, and he could feel exactly who survived and who mourned it all in the following moments afterwards.

Arthur finished cleaning him up one last time before leaning into his ear to whisper. “I’m going to move you to the bed now. Is that alright? I’m just moving you.”

“I’ll get it dirty…” he moaned.

“No, you’re clean now, see?” He wiped him down then held a clean wet cloth for Alfred to see. “I’m going to pick you up and move you. Then while you’re in bed I’ll prepare some more water, and we can give ourselves a final clean.” He stroked his face tenderly, his face solemn and sorrowful.

“But the piano's still dirty...” Alfred mumbled sadly.

“I can clean that up for you if you let me move you.”

Alfred laid still for a few moments before nodding slowly. True to his words, Arthur picked him up with impeccable ease and imperial strength, holding him tenderly as he moved into the bedroom, and placing him down onto the bedside chair as soft as possible. He disappeared form Alfred’s vision, then reappeared in sleeping clothes, more clean and washed over.

“Here,” he whispered as he took the boy’s shirt off, hissing as he inspected his stomach.

The touches hurt, and Alfred looked down only to see a large bruise planted onto his gut. He cried out in shock, leaning his head back as he looked to the ceiling, trying hard to stop any tears from falling. He had already cried so much that day. Any more would probably flood the house.

Arthur washed his with the cloth, changing his clothes so swiftly Alfred almost failed to notice whatever was happening. And then he was picked up, and placed into bed, and sheets and blankets were neatly tucked over him, safe – no, just safer – and warm. But at least, in bed, there was no more red.

“I will be back when the piano is done,” he heard Arthur say softly before he was left on his own, miserably shaking and staring silently into the quiet little flame of the candle that stood on his small white nightstand.

Arthur was back before he even knew it, and the speed of things happening without Alfred noticing made him feel like he should have been more scared, yet by then he had felt so exhausted. The whole ordeal had just shocked him so.

Arthur climbed into bed and neatly hugged him from the side, and Alfred quickly leaned into his warmly welcomed embrace. The Empire brushed his heated hand softly over Alfred’s stomach, warming it up in an effort to sooth him and deplete the throbbing pain from his bruise, trying to comforting him in such a way that would help the younger boy fall asleep.

It didn’t work, however, and the two were left awake a long time to cuddle and contemplate throughout the night. They stayed silent. But, every so often, the massive bruise on his gut would begin to ache again, and Alfred would shift, trying to run from the pain, and Arthur would hold him tighter under his endless embrace.

Until a restless thought pounding through Alfred's head had finally decided to voice itself. “Do you think it was because of that boy?” He asked quietly.

He could feel Arthur’s sorry sigh from the back of his neck. “The German boy you spoke to me about?” He asked cautiously.

Alfred huffed, nodding to himself and holding Arthur's arms tighter before he continued. “Yeah, that poor eleven-year-old. The one murdered back in February…”

He felt Arthur's arms tense up under his own. “Was he not a part of that crowd who were throwing rocks at a man’s house – a man just doing his job – and also struck his wife?” His voice was apprehensive.

Alfred looked deeper into the burning flame of the candle. “I had no idea shooting children was part of any man’s job.” He said dryly.

His companion was silent for a long while. “No, it is not.” He whispered, sounding dejected. He squeezed his arms around Alfred more tightly, and his Colonies held them close to his chest, pressing his hands directly over his heart.

“They say more than two thousand attended his funeral in Boston. I felt it, you know. I felt that one too.” He turned around to look at him straight in the eyes. “All the way in Boston. That funeral happened all the way in Boston, and I still felt it…” He watched for Arthur’s reaction for the longest time. He could barely see it, with just one small candle lit, and the strength of the sky had long since faded quick. “You know, I think he died in the evening too.”

Arthur stared blankly at him. Alfred knew that look well; he could see the fear in his eyes. The uncertainty, the instability. It made him scared too. It made him anxious. And it made him wonder too.

He felt soldiers shoot people. He felt men in red uniform shoot people, and he felt them shout and scream their own abuses back at them too. _People died,_ but then they died so far away...

How could something so far away like that affect him so? Affect both of them so? Why could he feel their pain, and their suffering, as if they were his own, but he was all the way safe and sound hidden in North Carolina? Well, was he really safe and sound? Were they all really _that tied down_ to the wills and motives and antics of their people as personifications? Could they ever avoid it? Could they ever run away from it? And could Alfred ever continue to avoid it, or ignore it, when he felt so strongly for their justice?

He turned back to look at the nightstand, and leaned forward to blow out the candle on its top before settling back down in bed. Back into Arthur’s arms, where he finally began to fade out of consciousness. God, he was tired. It was a great relief, to finally feel sleep come along. Especially after seeing so much of a shocking sight of red.

He welcomed it thankfully. He needed it. There was only so much he could take at once. However, there was still that little invading thought that swirled and skidded around his frazzled mind. That damned thought he just couldn't remove. They repeated themselves again and again and again, reigniting a long-lived lust for something new. For something new in his life that could help him break away - to run away and start something new. The same six words, again and again. Those same six haunting words;

_Are we free? Can I breathe?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok! There goes this fic's first big historical event...  
> Slow, subtle, kind of happening, but not really. Its happening so far away you don't really get a real glimpse of it.  
> I adore that Alfred isn't in Boston, he's states away. But he still manages to feel it. All of the Colonies felt it. I feel like its something important to emphasis about his character, especially during his youth. He doesn't have to BE there to be moved by an event. He just feels it, and he gets it. And he wants justice for it.
> 
> So, on the 5th of March, 1770 the Boston Massacre happened.  
> It started with mob violence and verbal abuse hurled at soldiers. Given the unpopularity over the constant presence of the British military around Boston, this was to be expected. The soldiers opened fire at the crowd. 5 people died, 6 were injured. Patriots used this as excellent propaganda for their cause. One of the leading events that HELPED spark the revolution.
> 
> The "German boy" Arthur speaks of was a child shot and killed by a solider; Christopher Snider (or Seider, standardized spelling did not exist at that point) was a poor boy born of German immigrants. He died earlier, on the 22nd of February, 1770. Bostonians were livid about this, and many historians say his death was one of, if not the biggest contributor behind why the Boston Massacre even happened.  
> Over 2000 people did attend his funeral. As they should have. Nothing excuses state terrorism, especially when used to scare the masses into submission.
> 
> I hope this was enjoyable to read! Your comments mean a lot <3  
> So long, and until next time...


	14. The year was 1770

It was two days. Two days of anxiety; a thumping heart in the chest and a bite of the cheek. Two days to take deep breaths, go out and walk in gardens and talk. To try and tone down any nervousness from the horrid events from before, still so fresh in Alfred’s mind. Because today was the day. The day France was due to arrive.

The report said he should arrive sometime in the morning, but Arthur scoffed at that, saying he would either arrive earlier, given the Frenchman had possibly urgent motives, or far later, maybe even the day after, given the “bastard scoundrel” could not care less for catering to the English nation and his schedule. Arthur had been tense and sharp-witted the whole day, clearly not enjoying being on edge. Alfred just stood there as he watched his Empire from the office doorway, the elder one scrambling around the room to gather all the necessary papers and documents needed to discuss rotten politics. It was an unnerving sight. He hadn’t seen him so frantic in years, and he had no idea how to help or be useful. Nationhood was not his duty. He wondered what it was like.

“Now,” Arthur said in a heated flush as he slammed another stack of paper onto one of the tables. “You must refer to me as ‘England’ when he arrives, yes?” He continued to flick through different documents as if it were nothing.

Alfred furrowed his brows, confused. “Why?”

Arthur sighed, pausing slightly before continuing. “Look, it is a complicated thing to discuss. Just please do as I say when I say it. Your cooperation will be…” He dropped the quill he was carrying, watching it grumpily as it floated down gracefully to the ground. “Greatly appreciated.”

“I could help you,” Alfred tried to say as he slowly walked closer. He craved any sense of utility. And he craved understanding. “If you told me how, I could help you better.”

Arthur sighed again, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers.

“I just want to help you.” He whispered softly, “like you’ve helped me.”

Arthur smiled softly at him, seemingly relaxing as he leaned down on the main desk. “Using human names when there are no humans around to hear is seen as a term of endearment.”

That only confused Alfred further. “Why? They’re our names.”

“They are our pet names. We give them to ourselves. We use them around humans. But they are not our real names.” Arthur stood tall as he said it, “my name is England. I need you to call me that while he is here.”

Alfred stood back, slightly stunned. He fiddled with his hands a little, trying to make sense of it. Arthur was always Arthur first and foremost for Alfred. Now all of a sudden he was nation first, person second? Was it always like that? Had he always seen himself like that? Or even scratch that, Alfred was always himself as just Alfred for so long. Where did that put him?

“See?” Arthur butted into his thoughts, sounding slightly sad but mostly annoyed. “This is why I didn’t want you asking questions. You are all confused now.”

Alfred shook his head. It still didn’t make sense to him. “But I represent your colonies. Wouldn’t it be good for us to show how close we are?”

Arthur nearly laughed as he looked at him, a mocking expression on his face but deep agony within his eyes. “No,” he shook his head slowly. “That is the worst thing you could do.” He bowed his head almost shamefully before whispering at a volume near inaudible, “empires must never display any attachments to their colonies. It is the greatest sign of weakness.”

Alfred stood next to him, silently watching as he seethed with a sudden sense of anger. The feeling shocked him, but he couldn’t help it. The whole thing sounded completely ridiculous. Did they have some sort of nation committee where they all gathered up to agree on all this shit? He had no idea who decided to make up such stupid rules, or how Arthur even knew about them in the first place, but he really wanted to just sit down and have a nice, civil discussion with them and tell them the one thing he knew for certain; Arthur was Arthur, and he was Alfred. He shook his head, attempting to put out the red hot fire blazing within his body as he tried changing the subject. “Why do you have so many papers to go through anyway? That’s very unlike you,” he grumbled.

Arthur let out a guffaw as he leaned back onto the desk, this time pushing himself up to sit on it. His eyes skimmed the messy room with bright, disbelieving eyes as he crossed his legs comfortably. “Yes, I would say you are correct on that one,” he chuckled. He turned to Alfred, smiling kind and tender, “I was originally planning on spending the last two days on organizing it all. But then…” He hesitated, looking down then back up at him, “I wanted to focus on you.”

That earned a small smile from Alfred’s lips. He still found himself a little grumpy, however.

“Alfred,” Arthur’s emerald eyes burned into his – proud, powerful, pleading. “Please remember that this is not personal. The politics of nationhood is not something you would understand. It is just a part of our business.”

He nodded slowly and silently in melancholic acceptance before hearing the sound of horse and a muffled voice from outside. “Oh!” He jumped nervously. “It’s France.”

Arthur frowned, seemingly put off by sudden sounds. “I cannot hear a carriage,” he said as he stormed out the room, Alfred following suit. He paused before the front door, turning back to Alfred. “Now, remember my Colonies. Chin up, back straight. Do not dare to crease that lovely new coat I have given you.”

Alfred couldn’t help but laugh. “Yes, England,” he chuckled mockingly before Arthur gave him a warning glare, shutting him up quick.

He opened the door quickly, obstructing Alfred’s view of the outside world. He stood idly and unmoving as he watched Arthur’s eyes go wide from tense anticipation to shock, then absolute delight as he held his hands out wide.

“Matthew, my dear! Come in!” He laughed, relief evident in his voice.

Alfred gasped as his younger brother walked in, revealing himself as nicely groomed as ever, wearing a clean-cut outfit and a gleeful smile on his face as he threw himself into Arthur’s arms. The boy tilted his head to see where the noise was from. Spotting Alfred, his grin grew wider as he shuffled to jump over and wrap his arms around him as well.

Alfred laughed loudly before pulling back slightly, wary of the sudden ache in his gut. “Wow, your acne is terrible!” He said jokingly as he pushed away, trying to keep his distance without either of them noticing.

“It’s still not as bad as how much your voice breaks,” Mattie swiftly replied with well-practiced ease and a sly, humorous twinkle in his eye.

The hug between the three of them broke up as they laughed at each other, Alfred smiling brightly as he cried out, “oh, I’m so glad to see you!” And he really was. It was a breath of fresh air to finally see him again.

Arthur’s smile dropped as he assessed the both of them. “I knew it was too early for him to be here,” he woefully hissed as he walked off to the side.

“How do you mean?” Matthew asked.

“I mean it is probably for the best if…” Arthur pressed his temple with his fingers, “if the two of you went on walk.” He nodded to himself. “Yes, we need more water. Alfred, you go get the bucket, if you would be so kind. We need more water from the creek.”

Alfred looked at Arthur, then at Matthew then back at him, nodding in silent understanding. “Alright,” he said quietly. He’d been so stressed the past two days, he had hardly remembered the next peril that was planned to come knocking at the door. He was not prepared for this.

“Wait,” Matthew butted in, sounding almost hurt. “Why?” He watched Alfred with pleading, fearful eyes as the latter awkwardly left to fetch the bucket.

“Because, Matthew,” he overheard Arthur say hesitantly from the other room. “France will soon be our guest here too.”

Alfred’s return into the room was an uncomfortable endeavor. He gripped the big bucket tight, swinging it awkwardly as he stared blankly at the ground. He hesitated before looking at Matthew, who stood there stunned, clearly holding back tears. He cringed as he watched the Canadian personification clench his fists into a ball and release, clenching and then releasing. He cursed himself and bit his lip. If only there was a way to deliver letters after only days of notice. Anything, anything at all that could have helped ease his pain, or help him prepare for the onslaught of emotions he must have been feeling. Alfred felt completely useless.

“Maybe then,” Matthew started slowly, his quiet voice croaky. God, how the memory of that nation always made him upset. It made Alfred’s blood boil. “Maybe we should take my horse for a ride, then.” He turned to look at Alfred, a tiny smile present on his lips.

Alfred’s face crumpled up in confusion. A horse? _His horse?_ Alfred knew Mattie would always buy a horse to travel down here, but he would always sell it upon arrival for the next traveler, and then he would buy another when it was time to ride back up north. Everybody did that. It was customary for inter-colonial travel. Why would he still have the horse he bought? He usually always sold it before walking down to the house. They never got to see them.

“You have a horse with you outside?” He asked as he blinked twice.

Matthew beamed, seemingly ecstatic for the distraction. “Yes!” He cheered, “and she’s mine for good! Would you like to see her?”

Matthew reached out his shaking hand, and Alfred took it. He guided him out the house, with Arthur following, suddenly revealing the bright and wild outside. And there, tied to a pillar that held up the roof of the porch, was a stunningly beautiful horse with a coat as black as the night and as shiny as the stars.

“Her name is Peggy,” he said excitedly as he patted her.

“And she belongs to you?” Arthur asked politely, shocked yet also intrigued.

“Yes… well, kind of. I’ve been taking care of her for the past two months.” Mattie smiled at her as she nickered and leaned forward to rest her head on his shoulder. Alfred laughed kindly at the sweet sight of it. The boy beamed, proud to show off his horsey; his new sense of purpose, his pride and his new responsibility.

“It is a wonder she trusts you so much, if you have only known her for such a short amount of time,” Arthur smiled as he watched them.

“Well,” Alfred laughed, leaning into Arthur’s ear. “It doesn’t take everybody a billion years to open up like you do.”

That earned a pretty solid kick on the back of the leg from a Goddamned empire. He squawked, trying his best to shrug it off as he shook his torso and stuck his tongue out, quickly shuffling away as he hopped over to the horsey.

“Can I pat her, please?” He asked Mattie, ignoring Arthur’s imperial grumbles in the distance. He smiled brightly and let out a loud chuckle. It hurt, but it was definitely worth it.

“Sure.”

Matthew moved over as Alfred dropped his bucket and began petting her. He smiled as he softly stroked his fingers down her nose, earning a hefty huff from her nostrils. Peggy, huh? She sure was a beauty. Well-kept and well-mannered, he could tell she was definitely Mattie’s horse. She was strong and muscular, looking agile, sturdy and full of endurance. She looked like she could run fast, fast away – taking Alfred with her as she fled from any political troubles or religious prosecution. He could imagine a highspeed getaway, riding fast into the Alleghenies alongside Gaelic settlers like Captain Dougal after being pushed into the rims of society by ruthless rulers wearing red coats. Alfred beamed as he thought of it. Yeah, she looked like the perfect horse to ride while fleeing from tyranny.

“Where on God’s green earth are we going to house her?” Arthur’s nagging voice tagged in. “How are we going to feed her?”

“Oh,” Matthew blinked as he stood back, facing Arthur and the house. “I didn’t think of that.”

Alfred shook his head as he got out of his trance. “You’re really just as dumb as me sometimes, aren’t ya, Matte?” He laughed from behind him before he turned to Arthur. “I guess she’ll have to end up eating your flowers then, Arthur.”

“One more word from you, young man, and you will be the one on her dinner plate tonight, not my flowers.” He snapped back. He then addressed Matthew, speaking with a more polite yet obviously snarky tone, “no need to worry. We have Alfred’s cornmeal that we could always feed her with.”

“No!” Alfred giggled playfully, “not my cornmeal, that's for my grits! You know how I live off grits!” He tilted his head back to laugh out loud and free, but froze up quick when he noticed a moving carriage far out in the distance. It was on their road, and it looked like it was coming towards them. His smile quickly dropped as he looked back at Arthur, who was looking long out into the distance too, angry and afraid.

Matthew’s eyebrows knitted together as he watched him, confused, before turning around to see whatever they were watching so intently. He let out a little helpless “oh” before he could stop himself, and then he hung his head low, kicking the dirt nervously.

“So he has decided to arrive on time, after all,” Arthur deadpanned as he brushed out the creases on his clothes.

France’s carriage took it’s time to arrive by the front door. It was old and wooden, clearly a hire and not a purchase. France sat on the seat outside, guiding the two horses before it with rich blue reins of rope.

“ _Bonjour_ ,” He flamboyantly cheered as he hopped off. His accent was heavy as he spoke, “I apologize for my rugged appearance. I am not used to riding in vehicles of such... colonial standards.”

Alfred’s jaw tightened as he looked away, feeling insulted. The hell did he mean by that?

“Not that I mean to offend you,” he carried on, flicking his free hair off his shoulder. “But it was the cheapest transport for all my papers – and oh! So many papers! – so don’t worry, don’t worry. I have humbled myself to save a few coins.” The man, despite his toned-down transport, was dressed elegantly with blue and golden embroided fabrics. His hair flowed well with the wind, and his long honey eyelashes complemented his light blue eyes and outfit tremendously. Overall, he appeared to be the age of about two-and-twenty, the oldest of them all. That meant he was the most powerful; old and knowledgeable, yet still youthful and determined. Alfred had to watch out for him.

“ _Angleterre!_ How do you do?”

Arthur crossed his arms, swiftly refusing his gesturing for a hug. France moved on quickly, his eyes set on the colony boys.

“ _Canada_ ,” he brushed over him with a quick gaze. “And dear little _Treize_. How are _you_ doing, in particular?” He asked with a strange tone of kindness as the Thirteen Colonies glared up at him, watching him with wide open eyes, alert to catch out any sign of disdain, distrust or treachery. It shocked him to see nothing in those soft blue eyes but a slight hint of hurt.

The French nation was overly friendly, chatting heartily and openly to three very locked up boys. He grabbed a few of his own reports from his carriage and waltzed into the house as if it were his own, forcing Arthur to follow him quickly, trying to hold back profanities as he asked him what the hell he was doing. Eventually Arthur came outside again with a slightly pissed off attitude and mouthed an apology.

“Are you two good to go?” He asked, exhausted already.

“Yeah,” Alfred nodded. Matthew had been mute ever since France arrived.

“All right,” he took a deep breath and put his hands on his hips. “Now… remember to get the water from a flowing source –”

“I know.”

“Because the last time,” he sighed deeply, “last time you forgot to boil it –”

“I know. That won’t happen again.”

“–we were sick for a week.” Arthur heaved as he ran his fingers through his hair.

“Ar –”

“England.”

Alfred bit his lip. He hated this so much. “England, are you sure you want us to leave you alone?”

Arthur nodded. “You have to, I’m sorry.”

Alfred shook his head. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

Arthur shook his head harder. “No, no. This is British politics. This is my business. You have to leave.” He then spun curtly on his heels and made his way back into the house, leaving Alfred and Matthew to the dust.

Alfred felt a rush of emotions pass through him as he watched him disappear. It took him a few desperate moments of longing before he turned to look at his new sole companion. “C’mon, Mattie. Let’s go run away and get some water,” he said, sounding depleted.

Matthew gave him a very strange look, bearing some sort of recognition for something that Alfred couldn’t quite name. He nodded and moved on before Alfred could ask about it. “I think for it to work, you should get on the saddle. I’ll be behind you, leading from the back,” he said, picking up the bucket.

Alfred nodded silently, lifting himself onto Peggy and taking the bucket from his hands. The saddle was kind of small for him, but he didn’t complain. Matthew untied her from the pillar and swung over, chuckling to himself.

“Huh?” Alfred asked.

“Oh nothing,” he could feel the purple-eyed prick smirking from behind him. “I just never noticed I was taller than you.”

Alfred gasped, trying to turn back to swat him, leading Peggy to start clopping her hooves and walk sideways.

“Alfred, stop!” Matthew laughed. A laugh! Alfred couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief. “You are going to tip us over.”

Alfred hugged the bucket, satisfied with his work, swinging his legs as they rode the horse away from the house.

“So where are we going?”

“That way,” Alfred pointed to the narrow path that led to Arthur’s gardens, and after that, a mass of trees that marked the beginning of the wilderness.

And with that, they began their journey. Alfred was right, Peggy was big and strong. She leaped and trotted like a comet in the sky. A free, flying horse. He could really see himself fleeing out into the wild with her now.

They passed the gardens, and Alfred felt ecstatic to hear Matthew’s happy voice perk up at the sight of it. “This is the most beautiful bloom I’ve ever seen yet! You’ve really outdid yourself with the garden this time, haven’t you!”

“I know,” Alfred nodded as he smiled, feeling a slight blush across his cheeks. “Most of the work this year was from Arthur.” So of course it was beautiful. He lost himself in the thought of it all, hugging the bucket too tightly. He gasped softly as he felt the sudden pain of his stomach bruise throb and pulse throughout his body.

It made him think of his people. Boston, and what happened in Boston. Whatever was _happening_ in Boston. The pain, and the persecution. Throughout history, many of his people have been forced to flee pain, to flee persecution. He supposed, the more he thought about it, it was an innate part of his nature. He was born to flee and find new peace, new land, new places and new rivers and new North Carolina creeks to settle beside. He was not one to provoke and rise up, was he? No, no he couldn’t be. He knew he could find his freedom without revolting. He had to. He couldn’t go through that sort of bruising pain again. He had to find a solution quick, especially after how his people were feeling after Boston.

He closed his eyes to meditate just for a second, holding tight onto the saddle as he felt his direct consciousness slip away. When he opened his eyes again, he had been transported to a lovely Virginian meadow, and every emotion his people felt would brush past him with a breeze that kept the weather so cool. He could feel that some of his people wished for violence, that was true. And it was scary. But he knew, as he felt the wind brush his hair, that most just wanted to live on. They just wanted to work, earn honestly, and return home to their families. They wanted peace. They wanted to be left alone and lead their own lives. And Alfred wanted that for them too.

He held his eyes tightly shut before opening them eyes slowly, realizing he had been quiet for quite a while. They were out of the gardens now, trotting deep within the wilderness of the trees. He wondered how long he’d left Matthew alone.

“How are things up north?” He asked, taking a deep breath.

He heard a little giggle, “same as ever. We’re getting through it, though.” He sounded appreciative for the sudden interest.

“And the Quartering Act? Is that still around? Are people still bugging you about that?”

A scoff. “We’re not even the type of house that’s supposed to be taking any solders in, but they don’t really listen to that. Some of them still try to come up. Usually I stand at the porch and stare at them if they try to come in. Then they always run away, all frightened of me.” He chuckled softly as he tried to stifle his pride. “It’s like they think I’m a ghost or something.”

Alfred smirked at that. “Yeah, well your staring can get a bit creepy sometimes.” He swung his bucket side to side a couple times. “And how is our charter going? How is she?”

He could just feel Matthew rolling his eyes. “She?” He poked his shoulder and said mockingly, “as glorious as ever, dear brother.”

“And where’d you get Pegsy?” He laughed as he patted her mane.

“Pegsy? Are you just giving nicknames to my horse now?” Matthew huffed before falling rather silent. “She’s actually not my horse.”

Alfred blinked, shocked by the sudden scandal. “Then whose is she? Did you steal –”

“She was gifted to me by a man in town… A man who has taken a pretty big interest in Missy.”

“Oh yeah!” He exclaimed cheerfully, “I remember you mentioning something like that in ya last letter! So…” He cooed, getting as comfy as he could on the saddle, “Are you gonna tell me his name?”

Matthew hesitated before answering, unsure of himself, “David Williams.” His next line was even quieter, even more hesitant, and even more unsure. “We’ve grown our own habit of… calling him –” he forced himself to stop, cringing as he quietly cursed himself for saying it.

That left Alfred confused. “Calling him…?”

“I don’t want to upset you!”

“How could a nickname upset me?”

“We call him Davie,” he responded in a flash, as if saying it fast would soften the blow.

Alfred blinked as he stared out in front of him, shocked. Then he felt himself tense up as it all settled in. Davie, huh? _Wow._ He hadn’t remembered his Davie in years. It was all but a distant memory, yet somehow, he could still recall his face as clear as day. Davie Jones, the one so interested in those foreign flowers. Those beautiful English flowers. The flowers that took years to reach him, decades even, finding their way to him only after he had been laid to rest. The man - once a boy - from whom Alfred took his last name as a final parting gift. Names lasted far longer than flowers, he supposed. He shook his head as he felt his heart grow heavy. He looked up and out around him, hearing the beautiful songs of the birds in the trees and the brushing of the wind in the leaves. He wondered if any of those birdies were him in spirit.

“I’m sorry,” Matthew whispered.

“It’s alright.” And he meant it.

“I never intended to call him that, or disrespect you. Missy started calling him it one day and I couldn’t help but tag along.”

“It’s all right,” Alfred repeated, more firmly that time. All was forgiven. He didn’t want to think about it anymore. “Well damn,” he huffed as he tried to lighten the mood. “She must really like him, then.”

“She does.” Matthew chuckled nervously, “I’m pretty sure they’ll be engaged soon.”

Alfred scrunched his face up in confusion. The first letter where he mentioned the man was only a month old, and that was too short a time, far too dangerous for a woman of her disposition. “But they’ve only just met!”

“No they haven’t, we’ve known him for a few months now.”

Alfred was shocked, taken aback. “How come you’ve never mentioned him before?”

“Because I didn’t know it was that serious at first! I only knew for certain when I saw him at dinner.”

Alfred’s mouth fell wide open. “He’s been in my house? Without me even knowing who he is? How could you let her invite him in like that?”

“Calm down, Alfred, please.” He sighed, “Missy was actually the one who was hesitant about it. I was the one who invited him. I told her you said yes.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because he’s handsome!” Matthew shouted out before he gasped loudly, as if shocked from his own outburst.

Alfred blinked. “Because he’s… handsome?” He blinked again before he started to chuckle. He had never heard a more stupid reason before. He started giggling, then laughing, then bellowing hysterically. He nearly fell off the damned horse. Oop, and he was sliding off. Nevermind though, they were up to where the creek was anyway. He continued to laugh and bellow as he swung his right leg over and hopped off Peggy, swinging his bucket around as he caught a good glimpse of the super-red-faced Matthew still sitting on her back, his hands held up to tightly seal over his mouth and his wide violet eyes filled with deep regret.

“Well then…” Alfred cried out as he continued laughing at him, spinning around in excited circles and dancing down on the ground. He was damn well intrigued with this new revelation. He wanted to know what the all fuss was about. “Describe him to me!”

“Umm,” Matthew blundered. He slowly stepped down from the horse. “Uhh. Well. He’s a hard worker. Umm. He’s got…”

“Yeah?”

“He’s got a kind soul. He’s, umm. His skin is really dark, his face is really square and his nose is flat and broad.” He hesitated, “he’s been travelling around for a while, looking for a new place to set up as home. He’s a good man, kind and polite. Oh, and you should see his carpentry, it’s really good.”

“Oh, then Missy would really love him. She loves making sculptures out of timber!”

“Yes, I know! He really is a good man, a fine freeman… You know, I don’t think I would mind them together at all, now that I think about it.”

Alfred huffed, crossing his arms. “You make it sound like he needs your blessing to marry her or something.”

Matthew frowned and shook his head, “no, I don’t mean it like that.”

He held his palms out before his chest. “Hey, hey. I get it. He does sound handsome, I’ll agree with you there.”

“Yeah,” Mattie agreed, sounding unsure.

Alfred stared straight at him, making him shift on his feet a couple of times. Something seemed off with him. He could feel it. It was as if he was worried about it somehow. And Alfred knew him well, he could see it. “You’re asking something of me, aren’t you?”

Matthew stared back for a few long seconds. “Yeah,” he whispered in reply.

Alfred waited for him to elaborate. He didn’t. “You don’t want her to leave you alone like we did.” He said it as a statement.

“No.”

Alfred took a deep breath, his eyes going blurry. It always made him so sad, the thought of Matthew feeling so lonely without him. God knows how lonely and abandoned Alfred himself has felt over the decades, let alone how much Matthew had been suffering. But the spirit of Canada always dodged bullets. He had no problem reminding people what _they felt_ about things, but him, oh no. He never acknowledged what he wanted. He would never straight up say it, or if he ever did, it would be too quiet for anyone to hear, always. Always. But Alfred knew him. He knew he was scared of being lonely. He was frightened of being left by himself again, and what would marriage do to his already fragile state of mind?

Would it take Missy away from him? Alfred knew how much she meant for him; how much the company of other people meant for him. How would he live without a companion by his side? Would he have to move in with Alfred and Arthur down here? No, he couldn’t do that. Alfred knew this place was too south for Matthew to stay down in permanently. He always got too anxious and too jittery when forced to be so far away from his own people. Alfred saw that. Alfred knew that. That boy couldn’t survive living in North Carolina for a month even if he tried, he would guarantee it. Nor could he ever abandon Alfred’s house, leaving it unoccupied. That would be too rude to ask, in Matthew’s overly polite mind, as wrong as it may be.

He stayed silent for a long while, contemplating the different options as he leaned forward before the little foot-high waterfall, filling the bucket with its clear, pristine water. This creek was always so beautiful, always so bright green and free and full of birds and other wildlife. He smiled at the trees. Their fresh bright leaves reminded him of Arthur’s own gorgeous green eyes. He once recalled the English nation saying he made King John sign the first Magna Carta out in a forest. He wondered if looked as beautiful as this. He turned back to Matthew after lifting the bucket out and sealing its lid.

“Are you asking me permission to let him stay in my house?” He asked with a small smile, hoping he hit the target right. It was really the only other option he could think of to help him.

“Yeah,” Matthew smiled nervously, hunching his back awkwardly and looking down at the ground. Alfred laughed again. So, Matthew really had already thought this through. He deserved an award for knowing his brother so well. “If you want, you can come back up and meet him –”

Alfred unknowingly rested his hand over his bruised stomach, earning a hiss from his lips. Going up north? At this time? No… No, he was too scared. He felt his heart race as his senses of flight once again overtook all logic in his brain. He wanted to stay put. He wasn’t going anywhere.

“No, I trust your judgement,” he said hastily, wondering if he was being wise or not. “If you like him, I know he’ll take good care of it,” he rationalized, trying to make himself feel better. He watched Matthew’s face beam as a delighted smile appeared on his face. He was smart, right? He could make his own smart decisions. He knew how to take care of himself, he was an age-old personification after all.

Alfred nodded to himself, forcing himself feel better. Yeah, that was it. He reapproached Matthew and the horse, swaying the heavy bucket between his hands to-and-fro. He used his torso to shove him forward, mocking him with a playful smile. “So, do you think David’s _the one?_ He passes all your tests? You’re fine with him?”

Matthew laughed, “yes, I am. But even if I wasn’t fine,” he shrugged, “I would feel wrong to interfere.” He let out a deep, audible breath. He looked reminiscent, lost in thought, like centuries of memories ran through his head. “They’re in love.”

They were in silence as they guided Peggy towards the water, letting her drink before getting ready to mount her again. Matthew was staring at him the whole time, a pondering, wondering expression on his face. It freaked Alfred out.

“You’re staring at me…” He started.

“Do you love Arthur?”

Alfred raised an eyebrow, confused as to where this was going. He placed a hand on Peggy, and his left foot on the stirrup, ready to mount her. “Of course I do. And you should too! We’re like famil –”

“No, I know that. I mean, do you,” Matthew looked above and around him for a couple of seconds, wondering how to word it. “Do you desire him in a more… unconventional manner?”

Alfred froze in place before trying to get up, looking back at Matthew with a snarl on his face. “Why do you think that?”

He wasn’t deterred by the expression. “I’ve been thinking about it for a few years now. But now I have references, I’m certain. You don’t see him as a brother, do you? You look at him the same way Missy and Davie look at each other.”

He began shaking his head, no, his whole body was shaking. He didn’t like it, not one bit. His brain buzzed as pure panic set in. How could his own brother make him panic like that? “No, I-I don’t look at him like that,” he tried his best to have a level voice.

“You’re a terrible liar, Alfred.”

There was a strange snap he heard from deep within. He bit his lip in as all his nerves forced him into anxious shaking, yet his heart raced with an angry burning fire, blazing with a fearful he had never met before. “You forget yourself, Matthew.”

“No, I don’t. You do. We both just had a whole conversation about finding another man handsome, and you were completely fine with that.”

“Oh! That is completely different!” He was yelling. He frightened himself with the sheer volume of his voice. “Acknowledging the attraction of another man is on a completely different field to thinking about acting upon lust for another –”

“So you have been thinking about acting upon your feelings for him, at one point or another?”

“No…”

Matthew let out a little cry of exacerbated anguish. “You are such a bad actor, do you know that?”

Alfred took a silent step back. The words echoed throughout his mind, drumming into his thoughts and shredding up his feelings. Such a bad actor. _Such a bad actor._ Old memories flashed within his mind all at once. He wondered if all those times Arthur would praise his work in their little plays was all a show. If it was just a way to make him feel better for all the beatings they took at Richmond Lodge. If he was lying to him, praising him, just to get him to shut up or be content or… Oh, how he loved the sound of Arthur’s bright laughter as he would play the parts of Malvolio or Launce or any other golden character from Shakespeare’s sweetest plays, despite the British Empire hearing those old lines a thousand times before. He always thought it was his own performance that made them special, Alfred’s magic touch that could always make Arthur enjoy them again and again despite knowing all the scripts off by heart.

Was that all a lie? Were all his efforts to make joy out of their suffering a lie? He suddenly felt frail as his shoulders grew heavy and sagged down in defeat… He thought he was good at acting.

“I promised myself I would try to keep it hidden,” he gulped.

Matthew rolled his eyes, clearly sick of playing around. “Well you’ve done a terrible job at keeping it hidden. I’ve been suspecting it for a long time, you know. _A long time_. But ever since you got back from England’s house, from the King’s house… it’s been obvious. _It’s in your eyes._ You have feelings for him!”

Alfred shook his head, anger building up once again. He didn't even care what Goddamned words he used, to hell with his own anxieties. He just wanted to let the anger out! “Look, I have no idea _what_ you are thinking, but think _what_ you want. But you’re not right. And even if you were right – _which you are not_ – I would never, never act on such a thing!”

Matthew looked shocked for a second, before his expression changed to be more studious. He gazed at him quizzically, daringly, as he crossed his arms up and narrowed his eyes, “Why?”

He flailed his arms around, searching for a point in his mind to scratch at, to grasp, to scream. “Because… because it’s wrong!” He took another step back, shocked as Peggy started stumbling away. Was he yelling? Why was he yelling? Why was he yelling so much at poor Matthew. He loved Matthew! He loved him, didn’t he? You don’t yell at people you’re supposed to love.

“I don’t see it as wrong.”

Alfred’s face scrunched up as he shook his head slowly and turned away. “Oh, everybody and everything is pretty explicit that it _is_ ,” he spat.

Matthew rolled his eyes again as he watched him miserably, like he was too far gone. He reached out for Peggy, stroking her in an effort to calm her. “We were born in a world where it wasn’t. Now all of a sudden you read a book from another world and it’s all wrong.” He shook his head. “I don’t understand that.”

Alfred threw his hands into the air again. “We don’t represent those people, though. They’re not ours. We’ve been to war with them!” He was nearly screaming, fear and regret all evident in his voice as it cracked horribly. His eyes blurred as his breathing began to hitch.

But something in Matthew snapped. “All right, do you want to talk about our own moral code, then? How about the fact that it is customary to fornicate with your fiancée in English culture?” He kept his voice steady and even the whole time. “Eh? That’s not exactly in the Bible now, is it?”

“Don’t you lecture me about English culture!” Alfred screamed. He was the one losing control. He was losing everything, and he hated it. The walls he had up, the walls he wasn’t even truly aware he had built, they were all coming down. He was scared, terrified. But worst of all, he had no idea how things escalated so quickly. He wanted to cry, to scream. To get out of this situation. He wanted to hug Matthew, make him forget the whole thing and make up and be happy again and this wasn’t supposed to be an angry trip. They were supposed to leave to give Arthur space, to make Matthew happy he didn’t have to see France’s stupid traitors face. He began sobbing. He suddenly felt bare and barren in the middle of nowhere, lost with nobody else to back him up in his cause. He was alone, naked and afraid with the knowledge of good and evil. It was too much. Why was Matthew doing this to him? Why was _God_ doing this to him?

Matthew raised his hands together in a frustrated surrender. His voice was calm and quiet, as it always was, yet it held enough dignity and grace to conclude the argument then and there. “I don’t want to fight you, Alfred. Judge yourself if you want. But just know that I won’t ever judge you for it.” He shook his head certainly, his wide eyes pleading for Alfred to simply understand him. “Please… please just remember that,” his voice finally cracked under the pressure, “and remember me.”

The rest of their trip was in complete silence. When they arrived back to the house, they left to hide in their own rooms. Neither of them spoke to each other for the rest of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peggy is actually based off a real horsey I once knew! His name was Comet, and boy was he a rowdy one... He really felt like a shooting star when he jumped, ahh the memories.
> 
> I got some pretty cool info about horse travel in colonial times from [here](http://imh.org/exhibits/online/legacy-of-the-horse/colonial-travel-america/) and [here](https://projects.cah.ucf.edu/economyofgoods/index.php/2018/09/24/horsing-around-the-cost-of-horse-ownership-in-1760-virginia/). I think its pretty cool they ended up making a sort of horse rental system back in the day, buying a horse for one use and then selling it when you reach your destination to another lone traveler. Its kinda like how we use rental cars today, now I think about it. Its really rational too, especially given the expenses of actually keeping a horse as your own property. All that feeding and housing... too much of a hassle for people trying to get from A to B.
> 
> Anyways, I hope you, dear reader, enjoyed this chapter... Cause I'm not sure I did, it made me sad. :(


	15. The year was 1770

Alfred flung through the thin pages of his old Bible yet again. He sat crookedly, huddled up and leaning on the dining room chair in such an awkward position as he read over the exact same words he’d seen thousands of times before. It was a nice old Geneva Bible. The first edition he had ever been introduced to, way back when he first met Arthur. But Arthur never touched this one; he preferred his own King James Version. ‘ _Far more up to date’_ , he would say with a scheming smirk and an eyeroll. And thus, it had become Alfred’s and Alfred’s alone, a gift just for him to recite and flick through as much as he so pleased.

So of course, it was only natural when he began to abuse it with love, writing stupid notes of commentary throughout and stuffing it with brightly colored tabs absolutely everywhere. Here’s a good quote there, that’s a strange story there. The hell is wrong with these crazy characters over here… And here’s probably some more inspiring advice, always signified by the bright blue tabs that stuck out the furthest.

He grabbed the tab, tugging at it, curious to see as he read the newly revealed words:

_Then I say, Walk in the Spirit, and ye shall not fulfill the lusts of the flesh._

Ahh! Damned Galatians. Less advice and more dictation. He snapped the book shut as he shuffled in his seat. _Lusts of the flesh_ … He bit his pouting lip as he squirmed in his seat once more. Goddammit! He was trying so hard to escape the ghostly shadow of those haunting feelings ever since his last talk with Matthew. He was trying so desperately hard to avoid it, and now his own cherished Bible had to go and remind him of it yet again. It didn’t help at all that Matthew’s presence still loomed around the house, himself sleeping off his sorrows in the guest bedroom down the hall.

Huh, he was still moping around about it. And with the best seat in the house at that! No bed is better than the guest bed. Of course, he would drag out his whining enough so he could spend more time in there, the selfish kid. And he was the one doing the interrogation in the first place. He had no right! Alfred shook his head. How did such a fire ignite in his own heart? In his own house? It frightened him, he didn’t want to feel like that. He didn’t want to be mad, especially at Matthew… he loved him.

But… But those comments, oh God, the things he said. He got under his skin. It was too much. And to say those things about England’s people and his culture. He had no idea Matthew could be so audacious about such things. He heard an ugly bend and felt a sharp sting of pain before looking down to see his arms pressing his Bible into his sore body. He’d been holding it so harshly it began to bend almost to the point of permanent damage. He jolted before nervously placing it down on the table beside him, ensuring it bent back to the way it was supposed to be as he rubbed his tummy sadly.

Gah! He didn’t want to be mad at Matthew. It wasn’t worth his time or any anguish. Nor was it worth dawdling over in hopes of the tension mellowing itself out. He sighed deep and long, lifting his top to see how he looked. God, how ugly his blotchy skin looked, a ghastly pasty green slowly morphing out of what was once was a blackish-purple blob. At least there wasn’t anything bulging in or out or anything, and at night he would get soft praise from Arthur, telling him with a kind smile that he thought its size was going down, and that he should be fine.

He should be fine… He should be calm and happy and at peace. Yet he felt so winded and knocked out. Maybe meditation could help him get back on his feet.

He began by closing his eyes, smiling softly as he leaned his head back and sprawled his arms out, letting himself relax into the chair as the world around him changed from beneath closed eyelids. This new location, he wondered if he had ever seen it before. It looked like a hunting ground, maybe. A pure paradise of parading animals in tall grass and birds waltzing with each other up in the sky. There was the soft sound of a stream not too far away, and he watched as the sunrays pass through the clouds, striking the wings of the many butterflies in a brilliant blaze of golden glory. He couldn’t help but laugh out of the sheer beauty of this land, this heavenly land that his mind – no, his people – had taken him to. He could tell. This is the sort of land good, innocent men would find themselves in the afterlife, in the eyes of his people from… Oh, from the Province of Georgia! He could feel it. He could feel the very emotions of his people in the wind, rushing straight into his heart. Yes! How beautiful; the pride and joy of Georgia.

He chuckled as he felt the beaming smile of a young boy who was just told by his tutor his province served as an important buffer state, protecting and defending the rest of the colonies from the hostile, evil, threatening big bad Spanish Florida. He giggled along with a group of pioneering Scottish women as they watched an arrogant man trying to woo them and failing miserably, tripping over a leaf and stumbling down to the ground, dirtying his clothes as he so deserved. A poor English tradesman bickering with an elderly religious refugee from Switzerland, them both keeping up the act until she finally broke down into a fit of laughter, and he cracked a knowing smile. A young Jewish woman scandalously dancing around with a Native man inside a small quiet shed, trying her best to hide them from any prying eyes as they felt a forbidden love they could not help but indulge themselves in. Oh yes, for these few moments, there was peace. There was paradise. Alfred could find some rest. He sighed as he wondered how the world would be if those precious moments could last forever…

“Well… look at you!”

 _Huh? That’s not right!_ Alfred’s eyes burst open as he flung himself forward, standing tall and alert as he spotted France leaning quite comfortably at the doorway. Where the hell did he come from? How long had he been looking at him? Shouldn’t he be bargaining away with Arthur, trying so hard to alter some international border deal that Alfred knew his stubborn English pride would never budge with?

“Mr France!” He gasped. “I thought you were with…” He shuffled on his feet, stopping himself before it was too late. “Mr England?” He cringed in response to his own words. It sounded so strange, so alien to call him that. But Arthur was England, and as long as he was the empire of this land, he was master of the house. So by those titles he must be called.

“Ahh, _oui, Angleterre_. He is still in the drawing room, finishing up the last report on our final agreements. He will most likely be in there for the rest of the day now, you should know how he is with details.” His cocky accent was far thicker than his clean-cut stubble. But maybe not as long as the luscious hair he would not stop playing with. “I say, I have never dealt politics in the drawing room before, it was a first for me. The most high-risk thing I have ever dealt in there beforehand would be a good game of cards,” he chuckled to himself. “For some reason he would not let me into his office as he usually would, _bof!_ How low standard he is…”

Alfred opened his mouth to interject, offended, but France cut him off quick with his rapid-fire words. “Maybe there was top secret stuff in there and he could not show it to me, how very hush-hush.” He tossed the thought away with a flick of the hair before getting back to business, “oh well, it is not so bad that he is still in there. Is it, my dear little _Treize?_ Because now I have the wonderful opportunity to deal with you. Isn’t that good?” He narrowed his eyes, those soft blue orbs glaring at the colony boy with playfully devious intent, “ _nous sommes seuls enfin_.”

Oh, God. He didn’t want to deal with France alone. He didn’t like dealing with him period. Not after the French and Indian war, and sure as hell not after what happened with Matthew during it. He felt uncertain under such an intense empirical gaze, biting his lip hard as he stood silently like old prey, bracing himself for the pounce of his hunter.

His hunter, however, did not suddenly pounce like a lion as he expected, but rather slivered like a snake. He sauntered up to the boy, swerving his hips to and fro with intimidating arrogance. Methodologically planning every step, he ensured that every move Alfred made to protect himself from France’s advancements sent him further back and straight into his snare; one of the room’s exitless corners.

“My, my!” He laughed as he bowed down waist-height to cop his shiny new toy at a different angle. “I didn’t have time to get a good look at you when I first came here. But now look at you! You’ve grown up so much,” he gloated. He reached his arms out wide, moving in for a tight embrace.

Alfred cried out in surprise before twisting his body to face the wall, instinctively hugging himself in a sorry effort to protect his badly bruised gut, sending strange stings and throbs throughout his body. He didn’t want anybody to go anywhere near that. He wanted Arthur to leave his office. He wanted Arthur now. He shivered before breathlessly whispering into the wall, “please don’t.”

France paused. He tilted his head to the side, an odd expression plastered on his face. It was almost as if he were insulted by the notion, yet also expecting the negative rejection. “Do you not want a hug?”

“No,” Alfred struggled to say as he held his breath and swallowed down some bile. Refusing to break eye contact with that little speck of dirt on the wall, he fumbled for a quick excuse to back out of being touched. “I was, umm. I was just meditating… and umm, sometimes I get really dizzy from it.”

France laughed at him, stepping back until he was at a more socially acceptable distance. “Is that so? I have never heard of such a thing. Usually I feel so relaxed afterwards, especially after a nation-wide celebration.”

Alfred shivered as he glared at his feet, his mouth open wide as he wondered what to say. He actually… took a step back. He ran a hand through his hair, unsure of what to do. He didn’t think France would actually listen to him. He always thought a big scary empire like him would take whatever he could. Just like a King he once knew.

He shook away the thought. They were talking about something else, weren’t they? They were. Umm… They were talking about… Oh, yes. Meditation. Meditation, that umm, that apparently makes him dizzy. Yeah, he was feeling really dizzy right now. Very fuzzy. And the ground felt like it was rocking. Huh. Were they on Captain Dougal’s ship again or something? Oh God, he was shaking real bad.

“Well, I do get dizzy from it, sometimes,” he whispered quietly. A big lie. Meditation never did that for him. It was always so nice, so grounding. But he had to be careful. If things soured for his people, it could become absolute hell. Arthur warned him about that. Arthur…

He didn’t experience meditation like Alfred did, did he? He didn’t see the same lands of paradise and persecution that he could see. Instead, external beings would approach him, talking to him and exchanging things with him. It sounded like something out of a fairy tale. Like a story. It sounded so enchanting. So safe. He wondered if that was how France experienced it too.

But Arthur seemed so nervous about it when he told him… Maybe that was because he had kept it a secret. His arm sprung out from his side, pressing down onto the wall. His anchor on this rough sea. He was so dizzy, it all felt so fuzzy – the words ended up tumbling out of his mouth. He didn’t even think of any consequences. The curiosity was just too much for him. “How do you experience it? Do you go anywhere when you close your eyes? Or does anybody come to you?”

“Come to me? That is a wild preposition you speak of.” France scrunched his face up in confusion. He looked at the Thirteen Colonies as if he were crazy. “And where we _go_ during meditation is a very personal question among us nations, in Europe at least. They are very private. _Très secret_. I would hope you have not been asking any other country that sort of question, they may not be as gracious in their answer as I have been.”

And with those vociferous words, Alfred felt himself standing back onto dry land. Ahh, an epiphany hit him. So that explained why Arthur was so nervous. This wasn’t something to be shared with strangers. Nor was it a shared _experience_ between himself and his fellow Europeans. France said _go_. They all went somewhere, the same way Alfred did. They all had their own paradises. They seemed to experience the same thing. But not Arthur. He was an outlier. He furrowed his brows as he wondered why. Before France snapped his fingers twice before his face.

“Are you listening to me?” He tsked, continuing on with a sharp-tongued lecture Alfred hadn’t even known he had started. “Those are your people’s feelings, _Treize!_ In the wrong hands, they are the perfect political tool! You must never share your experiences of meditation with another, has the _mouton noir_ not taught you this?”

Oh. Ohh… umm. He wasn’t aware that Arthur was sharing such… highly sensitive stuff with him. He rubbed the back of his neck as he felt a rush of heat on his face. “Oh, sorry, I… I’ve just never spoken to anybody about it before. I don’t know anything about it,” he gave a nervous laugh, yet was confident in smooth enough lie. “I just wanted to learn more about it.”

There was laughter in response. A subtle sparkle flickered through France’s baby blue eyes before he smirked slightly. “I see he has left you a clueless virgin bride, then,” he chuckled to himself. “How amusing.” He laughed again, this time more loudly. He curtly spun on his heels, plonking himself down at the dining table and suddenly freeing Alfred from his room-corner cage.

“But this is excellent, mind you.” He smiled devilishly after melodramatically brushing off fake tears from his eyes. “This proves that you have your own sense of identity! You are willing to put yourself out there and ask about these sorts of bold questions. You have passed puberty, my boy! And not only that, but you are experiencing meditation like a _real_ nation.”

Alfred stood dumbly as his eyes nearly bulged out of his head. A nation? He just likened his nature to a nation? That was a very, very foolhardy thing to say. Especially while under the same roof as the British Empire. How on Earth would Arthur ever react if he caught his rival empire talking to the Thirteen Colonies with such brashness and confidence? The man was mad!

He struggled to think up a proper reply, running away to the other side of the room for greater safety. He hid behind the table, ensuring it acted as his own Georgian buffer – providing a significant amount of distance between himself and the French Empire.

“The only nation within this household is Mr England,” he said indignantly before crossing his arms over his chest. It felt like such a strange thing to say. This house wasn’t a place of nations to him, it was a humble home of humanity. It was where _Alfred_ and _Arthur_ lived, and where _Matthew_ would visit on occasion. It was their barrier against the outside world. Where they could at least pretend to be human. Where he could pretend what it would be like. Where he could wonder if being born that way would have in any way alleviated any of the suffering they had been through.

But why think of that? Was there a point in these fantasies? Because they weren’t human, were they? They were the personifications of humans. They personified people. The spirit of the people. Their guardian angels. They were personifications of nations, yet Alfred was not a nation. He knew that well, and he had no idea why France would even dare suggest otherwise.

An accented grumble brought him back to the man before him. He gazed over at France as the old nation watched him intensely. He wondered exactly how he saw him. He wondered how he saw himself. How he referred to himself. How he used his names.

Long ago, Arthur taught Alfred of all his older brothers, men he’d shared centuries of hotly debated borders and heated, hurtful arguments with. He spoke of them while using their human names. He taught Alfred about his cousins too. Of Prussia, and even Russia who weaseled his way into the family tree somewhere down the line. He used human names for them as well. And so casually at that.

Was that how Alfred was supposed to refer to them as well? Did it mean that Arthur was friendly with them on a personal level? Or was he mocking them? Was he delegitimizing their nationhood?

Or was it so much more simpler than that? Had he been teaching Alfred their names just in case he ever met them in the curious presence of questioning humans?

There were so many rules, so many social norms within the realm of nationhood he had yet to explore, and yet here he was still blind to it all. France’s talk of meditation had proven that, at least. He couldn’t stop but think of what else there was he had to learn.

“I am fully aware,” France said with a smirk, “that the only official state here is _Angleterre_.” He leaned forward, still seated on the chair. The way he slivered reminded Alfred of something, but he couldn’t think of the name.

“But I look into your eyes and I must admit I see raw potential.”

And suddenly, Alfred could tell what he was. A snake, and a risky one at that. A large snake as perilous as the serpent who once tempted Eve.

“You could be so much more, I can tell! Your people feel they have their own identity, do they not?”

Alfred looked away. Whatever France was trying to tempt out of him, he knew it was a dangerous game. He slowly licked the bottom of his lip, noticing the re-emergence of long since forgotten scars. The skin that covered over was young and sensitive, yet he had already begun to abuse it once again. And this old familiar feeling that swept him over, it made him feel so frail and wary.

“I suppose,” he started, suddenly feeling drained. “I suppose living around a diverse range of immigrants makes me feel like I’m a little different to everyone else.” He tightened his grip over his chest. He didn’t like where his own mind was taking him. Because a part of his people – the non-English part of him – had always known as clear as day he was separate from what they saw as a small island across the sea.

But even for those who saw themselves as English through-and-through, there was still the echoing memory, a soft remnant of what happened during King Phillip’s War. A war from a century ago, during the early days of New England. A war Alfred’s people found themselves fighting on their own, without needing any help from an outside government or the British military. A war that proved they could stand on their own two feet. The beginning. The place that sparked a sort of unique, almost independent identity within the hearts of his people, if he ever dared to think of calling it that.

“Yes, I think you would know that very well.” France nodded attentively, cutting off his rambling thoughts once again. However this time, his voice was more kind. It caught him off guard.

He stumbled nervously as he grumbled to himself. He wondered if the nation thought of him a fool for being so aloof. “So, where are you going with this?” He pushed back huffily, “tell me your point so I can go.”

He wanted to run away, to flee somewhere else. The urge pumped some energy back into his veins, re-ignited his spirits. However something was keeping him from moving. He wanted to. He wanted to leave, to get away from this strange yet enticing tête-à-tête. He had the energy for it too. But why didn’t he move? And why did he feel like this empire was feeding an age-old hunger he was never aware of before now?

“My point is,” a pleasant chuckle, “that you are aware of your own capabilities. That is good.” Then his eyes went dark, sharp and reptilian. The very eyes of a serpent. “But now, you must be aware of England and his capabilities as well. And his big elaborate plan to keep you from ever maximizing your own.”

“His plan?” Alfred scoffed. Well, slivering France had certainly lost him now. He shrugged him off dismissively as he turned away, suddenly feeling braver for standing up against such a conspiracy.

“ _Oui_ , his plan! His plan to get his dear little Colonies to submit to him!” And suddenly France’s calm and collected nature was gone, and his usual histrionic performance returned, cussing at Alfred from over his shoulder. “You feel like you cannot live without him, do you not? You never want him to leave your side. You would never dare to leave yourself. But do you not see? This is how he wants it! This is how he keeps his power, _Treize!_ It is heartless, and it is the only way an empire like that can survive. He is _using_ you.”

Alfred cried out in distress and protest. How could he say something like that about Arthur? And to say that as an empire himself! Alfred was not a fool. He knew France had his own gains and losses. He probably had some over motive behind this talk. He probably had some other point beneath the surface. He shook his head in indignation. He was done. He needed Arthur. He wanted a hug.

He began making his way out the door before France stood up in an instant, slivering around Alfred and stopping him right before he made his exit out the room. _Oh_. So the freedom he felt from leaving that corner earlier was an illusion after all.

“Don’t you see?” The snake wrapped its scaly arm around his body. There was nowhere he could go. “You want to be with him right now, don’t you? But I try to tell you, _Treize._ I tell you!” The Frenchman flashed a frighteningly presumptuous grin, “I visited New England before I came here, you know…” And he leaned in to whisper seductively in his ear. “Your people are angry. They want more autonomy, you know that more well than I do. And I say you are worthy of that autonomy.” He leaned far back enough to make intense eye contact, holding him down by the chin. “Those riots I saw – I know you can feel them. No matter how hard you may try to hide behind the feelings of your people from these other provinces, I know you can feel it still.”

Alfred yelped, closing his eyes. His mind was racing. He definitely wanted to leave now.

“Don’t you see?” The snake repeated. This time softer, much more tender. A heavy French accent, more calm and composed. “You deserve a part in this.” Alfred tensed up. He was too close. “You want revenge for your people, I saw it in your eyes the moment I saw you.” Tears began to well up as he felt France’s breath linger on his neck. “It is your destiny to rebel and go to war. I see it.”

He finally had enough. Alfred pushed him away, shuddering as the tears finally fell. “ _No_.”

It shocked him at the very core. The touching, the looks he gave him, those feelings. The words he said. _War_. He said _war_ … His destiny.

– _Oh my God!_ The way he touched him! He was no different to –

He thought his _destiny_ was _war_.

– He felt so violated! He was going to vomit, he could feel it! –

His mind spun as he thought of Matthew and Arthur. The sorts of things war would mean for them. Hell, the sorts of things it would mean for himself. Pain, agony, bloodshed. Families being torn apart. Children never meeting their fathers again. Women weeping as strangers entered their homes. Never ever seeing the one he loved again.

– He felt like he was going to be sick… _Gah_ , he felt gross all over… –

No… no. He did not want war. He wanted no conflict. He wanted the riots to stop, for God’s sake! They hurt far too much! Why would he want a war? Oh, God, for their sake as well as his!

– _Oh no_ … Was he struggling to breathe? –

Think rationally! Think rationally! Why did he always feel the need to ration his logic when scared?

– Calm down, Alfred. You can breathe –

Arthur was the rational one, not him… He was the smart one. He would know how to get by this. He would know what to do. He was smart. He was rational. They would fin a way to change things without violence. They wouldn’t have to kill for change. He wanted the riots to stop. They could do that through peaceful means. They had to! He knew they could. Through negotiation and justice, they could reach a more peaceful conclusion. Together. They had to. British Parliament could be rational, couldn’t it? They could find a way. Because British people had to be rational… Because _Arthur_ was rational.

“I want justice,” he said firmly, taking in a heaving, heavy breath. Yes, he could breathe. He was out of the arms of the snake now. Shaken, yet not defeated. “I don’t want violence. I don’t. I won’t have it,” his voice cracked slightly, but he refused to see red. “I just want the King gone. He’s unfit to lead us, England and I both.”

France stood there, glaring at him for a long while. His expression left unfathomable – maybe shocked, maybe sorrowful. Either way, he ceased his suggestive behaviour at once. “Do you really think _Angleterre_ would agree to such a plan?” He asked softly.

Alfred frowned. Was that supposed to mean anything provoking? Alfred knew Arthur did not like the King. He knew he was unpopular not only for Alfred and his people, but for Arthur and his own as well. They would surely endorse the demand for a more rightful leader to step forward and take his place. And there was no need for rioting either. This was the age of reason, after all. Surely that meant civil discussions and peaceful parliamentarian conclusions, right? It… it had to be. Arthur had to agree with him. He had to.

He held himself up straight, standing in defensive defiance. “Why should that concern you?” He huffed. “Now,” he tried once more to leave, “let me go.”

“You think you can convince him,” France shook his head slowly, sounding disheartened and deprived. “I assure you, you cannot. You have most likely read something ridiculous like a little bit of John Locke, and now you think you know it all. I assure you it will take far more than that to ever change his mind.”

Alfred scoffed at what he saw as a blatant insult. “No,” he grumbled childishly, stamping his feet. “ _I_ assure _you_. I have read so much more than just him! Plenty of great writers, with an abundant set of different conclusions and…” Oh, God, what else? He settled for a word sounding simple yet bold, “ _ideals_ discussed.”

France didn’t bother to hide his eyeroll, a stinging snake bite that struck Alfred deep within the heart. “Oh, no you have not! Read some Aristotle instead, if you want a great writer. Some Tacitus, some Plutarch! Read some Montesquieu… Now he was a true Frenchman.”

Alfred stomped his foot once again as he bit back a hot flare of anger. “I have read some of those!” He cried out, frightened by the sudden return of an emotion he had been trying so hard to swallow down.

“ _Arrête!_ ” France hissed. “Don’t you see? You have done nothing but read some books and then run away. There is no fight in that, no passion. Thus, no change in the world that you wish to seek! You are so passive, so weak! You think you can change the world through speeches alone? You think you can convince _Angleterre_ to remove his own King, a man that he has helped raise, from a throne that remains his legal right to own? Just after he had finally made peace with the establishment, you uproot him once again? You have no foresight, New World boy! None at all!”

Alfred felt his eyebrows knit together. Peace with the establishment? What did he mean by that? He shook his head before pursing his lips. Oh, he was in this discussion for the fight of it now. “I do have foresight! I know England very well. I know I can convince him!” He said huffily. He was sure of himself.

France laughed humorlessly. “No. I am the one who knows him well. You know nothing of him.”

Once again, the serpent bit straight into Alfred’s pure heart, hurting him with its frosty crisp venom. “How can you be so sure?” He asked despondently.

France glared at him as if his question was beyond stupid. As if he were some young naive fool who knew nothing of reality. Yet here he was, an empire of great power urging on that very same fool into the idea of rebellion. “I have seen him fight,” he started firmly. “I have seen him hate. I have seen him scared. Those are the greatest feelings a nation can have. _What_ have you ever seen him feel?”

Alfred body shook from the accusing words hurled at him. From _that_ accusing word. But he still stood his ground. He knew how to answer that question. “I’ve seen him love,” he whispered with quiet determination. Until he reeled back in regret, wondering if he had revealed too much about himself.

But France wasn’t preoccupied with Alfred’s feelings on the matter. He was far more concerned with the words themselves. He shook his head and scoffed, as if he had just heard the most ridiculous thing in his entire life. “An empire like _that_ cannot love.”

Alfred snapped at that. Oh, he was really in this argument for the long-haul now. “An empire? Oh, so like yourself? Are you so heartless too?” Alfred shook his head and snarled, infuriated. What a fucking hypocrite. “You’re wrong.”

“No, you don’t understand.” France took a step back, seeming sad all of a sudden, almost horrified even.

Alfred wouldn’t let it go. No, he knew Arthur. He knew his care was real. He felt it in his hugs, he felt it in his laughter, in his music, in his tears. He knew Arthur could love others. He knew that fact just as much as he knew himself so unnaturally enthralled with a member of the same sex. With _him_ , his Magna Arthur.

“Knowing somebody for a longer time than another does not equate to knowing them better, or even knowing them well at all in the first place!” He said so in an overtly aggressive tone, cursing himself quickly afterwards. He was not doing a good job at hiding his feelings at all. Matthew was right about that. Oh God, he had to apologize to him.

“Oh, I think I know him very well,” France objected with a simple glower, a very dark and dejected look.

Alfred shook his head again. No. Arthur wasn’t like that. He was kind and loving and generous. Unlike France. So, so unlike France… Cool-hearted, cold-blooded reptilian France. “How well then, huh? As well as you know yourself and how cold empires like _you_ can get? Like how you straight up abandoned Canada after such a short battle against the British army? You just up and left him, France!”

And with that, France suddenly erupted. Like a geyser, a volcano. A fire in his eyes burned brighter than any place in Dante’s inferno, and the pain in his face reflected the aging agony that any of those sinners would’ve been suffering.

“How dare you!” He bellowed, “I was in absolute anguish after losing _Canada!_ I fought to protect him with all of my heart! Many of my men died to protect him. Do you not know? I knew the general who died defending _Québec_ personally. Montcalm,” his voice cracked pitifully, “he died trying to keep _Canada_ with me! We were outgunned and outmanned! _Angleterre_ had destroyed all of my naval fleets beforehand. We had no more reserve supplies… He destroyed them all! His army was larger than mine, _mon Dieu quelle horreur_. We had no chance at all.” He ran his fingers through his hair, grabbing at the roots and pulling. He sounded so defeated.

“I had no chance… Yet I still fought the best I could. Many of my men, they fought to their deaths. I know they fought the best they could as well. My men died for _Canada_ , you must understand. Even though, in the end,” he snarled at the ground, “it was all in vain. He took him from me, you know… And with no remorse in his eyes at all.” He shook his lowly-hanging head, disgusted with the memory he found himself so absorbed in. Before his vengeful eyes snapped up to bite at Alfred once again.

“Now, you listen to me,” he hissed as he pointed an accusing finger at him. “You shall not call me a coward for watching my men fight so bravely, holding out as long as they could, defending themselves against an enemy army far more substantial than my own. _Non_ , I will not let anyone question the spirit of my people in such a way,” he spoke with a cold and commanding cadence. “Do you hear me?”

Alfred couldn’t respond. He didn’t know how to respond. No… no. Arthur wasn’t like that. He wasn’t like that. He was not the cruel one. France must be lying. And by God, how the words hurt his heart. Any more venom from this snake would surely kill him. “I… I don’t –”

He interjected sharply, “Do you see now? _Angleterre_ is cold and self-serving. There are no words you could ever say that will convince him to join your cause!” There was something blazing blue from behind his eyes. A passion from his soul that craved a certain action. He wanted something, he really really wanted something out of this. Alfred narrowed his eyes as he remembered that verse from Galatians. He wasn’t planning on being so hasty as to indulge in whatever France was wanting from him.

“You must wake up! You cannot read some books, toss some words into an argument and then run away. That will never bring change. Trying to convince him will never bring change. If you want change – if you truly want a new world order – then you must get active! You must get violent! Rise up now as your people have been doing. As you have been neglecting. Ideas are only useful if you muster enough courage to act upon them!” France leaned back, as if he were exhausted by his outburst. He loudly sighed as he processed the look on Alfred’s fuming face. “Oh… This is not how I wanted this talk to go. This is so hostile, so hostile!” He waved his arms about in distress.

Alfred shook his head as his face scrunched up into an ugly frown, disgusted. Why was he always so histrionic?

The French nation sighed again, brushing at his clothes as he once again tried to present himself as calm and composed. “Here, I will send you letters. Updates. Ensure you are the one who opens every informal letter that comes to this house. Then I may put them under Mathieu’s name to hide them from –”

“Don’t you speak his name,” Alfred growled.

“– But inside the letter you will see they have been written under my name; Francis Bonnefoy. You understand me? So if you change your mind – if you embrace your destiny – you will always be free to join the brawl…” He held his hand at his heart, determined, “for the will of your people.”

Alfred’s eyes trailed off to his Bible sitting on the table behind the Frenchman. He thought again of the verse he read from earlier. Not to fulfill the lusts of the flesh. Not to indulge in the very same anger that had been propelling this pointless argument. This ridiculous dispute. He wanted his book back in his arms. “I don’t want your letters, _France_ ,” he hissed back in a tone the bastard might at last understand. “I am not Eve.”

Another sigh. “You will want them in the future, though. Trust me.” And with one last sad glance, he slumped back down onto the chair, holding his head up with his hand.

Alfred pushed past him, hastily picking up his Bible as he finally gathered enough strength to get up and walk away. He stormed through the house, heading up to the guest bedroom. He wanted to talk to Matthew. He had to apologize to him. He couldn’t stand the thought of him returning north with a sour ending such as that. Oh God, he didn’t know how he would ever function without him. Or without Arthur.

France’s speech had scared him. He didn’t like the idea of joining any ‘brawl’. He detested the idea of getting violent. And he couldn’t stand the thought of pursuing change without convincing Arthur to be by his side. How would he ever do it? He hated the idea of being alone. He couldn’t think of doing something without him. He needed Arthur beside him. He needed to be set free _with_ him. All that France had said was wrong.

He watched his thumbs shake as they sealed themselves tightly in their grip over the Bible. No. Arthur believed in God too. He was rational. He knew that God would set certain men as Kings, and if ever these men were unfit, it was surely a sign from the heavens the man had met his purpose, and a new leader was set to take his place! It was a clear sign to change the system. To wipe the slate clean. To fix things.

He knew his Magna Arthur was rational. He knew he was kind and caring, and he took Alfred’s words into consideration. His words were his strength. Their peace was their bond. And if Alfred’s Quakers could make a difference in the world with all but their charity and their kind words alone, then surely he himself – who personified them along with many other gracious groups of immigrants – could convince Arthur, a man he loved and trusted, into seeing his side of the story.

France was wrong. He couldn’t be more wrong. There had to be a way to take action that didn’t invoke some sort of violence, or that didn’t cause such national agony like what happened in Boston. No. No more innocent lives had to be threatened. No tapestries of colony and colonizer had to be torn.

Arthur once told him that it was the idea that counted. It was the idea itself that changed ways. He knew he could convince Arthur to be by his side with these ideals. He could do it! If he managed to state his case, to present his points well enough, then he was sure that Arthur would take his side… Wouldn’t he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoop, well this took a long longer than expected to write! sorry for the wait, I hope it was worth it!
> 
> I have the entire timeline drawn up now, however! It feels so good to skim through all of my completed planning!! Now I'm working with a more solid and coherent plot, I might be able to get this fic finished far sooner than I thought I could. Let's hope! *fingers crossed*  
> 
> 
> But as always, History notes!  
> 1\. America has always been different from other colonies. The USA really did start off in an extremely unique position. Even before the declaration, British rule was always so much more indirect compared to other colonizers, especially Spain. New England wasn't really English at all either. Firstly, it was once New Holland, and even after the British bought it off the Netherlands, King Phillip's War happened. That war has been said to spark the beginning of an 'independent American identity' separate from the English. [This is a really cool quick video about the war!!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uNXDplgft_g)
> 
> Also, Georgia was an extremely important 'buffer state' between Florida and the Carolinas, protecting each other's ways of life. That cannot be overstated. Their rules and regulations were so different from each other that the idea of them being exposed to each other's ways was seen as a massive threat to their respective colonizer's rule. Spain was just too strict, the colonies might want to rebel, or England was just too lenient, the colonies might get the nifty idea just to ditch their control all together (which is what they did...)
> 
> 2\. The French fought very hard during the Battle of the Plains of Abraham/Quebec. According to Francis, Jones & Smith (2000) [ISBN 0-7747-3664-X], the British completely obliterated the French naval fleet before the battle, leaving New France to practically wilt away as it waited to be taken over by a far greater and more resourceful British beast of an army. Poor France. I wonder how different the world would be if that hadn't happened... who knows...
> 
> Louis-Joseph de Montcalm's (the commander of the battle on France's side) last words were pretty Goddamn based though, haha. He was shot during the battle and when informed that he was going to die from the wounds, [he allegedly said [Translated from French]](https://www.herodote.net/13_14_septembre_1759-evenement-17590914.php) :  
> "All the better. I will not see the British in Quebec."  
> I don't know if that is sad or super cool. Either way, I think it summarizes the sort of sentiment I was trying to get out of Francis' revealing monologue.  
> I really wanted to make it emotional. I think it deserves that. I didn't like how France's feelings about the whole thing were kinda brushed over in the Hetalia episode. And I know that episode was in the perspective of Canada, so of course it would be like that for him, seeming like France didn't care that much... But I just wanted to show the French side... Because they really did try, man. I just felt like that needed to be told.
> 
>  **Extra note!** If you're interested in the history Bibles such as the Geneva and the King James Version within British America and the Early U.S. Republic, then [this short article is a really cool place to start!](http://www.ouramericanrevolution.org/index.cfm/page/view/p0161)  
>    
> Once again, thank you for reading and for all your kind comments and support!! <3
> 
> Oh, and dear, poor Alfie. The things you have been through. I am so sorry...  
> Please forgive me...


	16. The year was 1771

It was such a beautiful day to be skipping barefoot over the rocks. Alfred giggled as he spun his basket around, pivoting on the last rock he clumsily landed on to look at Arthur. The nation was strolling beside him with eyes closed and a blissful smile on his face. It looked as if nothing could bother him. But Alfred knew better.

He didn’t have the time to say something snarky before a piercing green eye peeked open. “Must I take you to some sort of animal conservatory, Mr Jones? It must be where you belong,” Arthur said with a bold laugh. “I swear, with elephant steps such as those, it is a righteous shock to my system that all of the search parties sent out in our names have yet to have heard you and find us.”

“Aww,” Alfred hopped on the stone twice, tossing the basket from side to side as he smiled smugly. “That’s just a fault on behalf of your soldiers then, if they are so bad at finding clumsy old me.”

“You watch your mouth in regards to my soldiers, boy.”

“Hey, you were the one to insult them first!” He leaped off the rocks to rejoin Arthur back on civilized path. “If you’re right and they have been searching for us then they’re terrible. It’s been six years! Six years, and yet nothing.”

Arthur shrugged dismissively, but his eyes told a different story; one of hope. “Maybe the King does not care so much to find us as we once thought.”

Alfred beamed, grabbing onto his upper arm and shaking it excitedly. “So does that mean we can go out of hidi –”

“No.”

He groaned as he pushed forward and kept on walking. “Oh, drop dead, England!”

A soft chuckle sounded from behind him. “Why would you want to, anyway? Do you not enjoy our domestic life?”

With a little sigh, he looked down and kicked at some of the pebbles on the ground. His eyes fell onto the basket. A cloth covered it up for protection, but he knew very well what the contents were inside. Old tattered clothes Alfred declared useless and had thrown to the floor in a fit of despair, only for Arthur to take them and – with expert hands – patch them up to look like new as they sat together by the fireplace, humming old battle hymns and reading out adventure novels to each other. And sometimes, if Alfred found himself lucky, Arthur would even teach him an old brash and bawdy sea shanty.

He felt his smile reach his eyes as he dug his hand into the bag, feeling around to see if he could find his handmade soap. Oh _wait_ , did he even pack it? Oh, _yeah yeah_ , yeah he did. He could feel it. Oh thank God, there it was. He beamed happily as he ran his thumb over it, touching its smooth texture as the tallow and lye rubbed off onto his fingers. He loved making soap. Oh, more than that; he loved all of the domestic duties he was tasked with, taking the place of any maid or wife who would live with them if they were human. He loved the tossing and turning, the bending and rounding, the cooking, the scrubbing, the sweeping; he loved it all, tedious or not as it came to be over the years. Domestic life gave him a soft kind of joy nothing else could ever replace.

He was fully aware of any womanish impression he would give off to others if they ever heard him speak with such a sentiment, but he never really cared. Arthur never seemed to mind. In fact, with him so busy with other things all the time, struggling to find ways to covertly regain their ever-dwindling income and conduct political affairs while still in hiding, he always made an effort to prove he was grateful for Alfred’s labor. He’d be rewarded with pastries and new books, picnics and every now and again music for him to dance to. But other than that Alfred just simply found it fun to do. It was a point of pride for him, his little domestic creations. They reminded him to take notice of all the small things in life and acknowledge how beautiful they were.

Like the dear little soap he made and always packed for their weekly washing trips. He grabbed it out of the basket and smelt it, smiling as he caught whiff of the new surprise ingredient he’d added in. He knew Arthur would love it too.

"Here, smell this!” He eagerly spun around and held it up to Arthur’s nose. “Do you like it?"

Arthur leaned his head back, unimpressed before smelling it and stopping suddenly. “Lemon balm,” he said with a sudden smile. “You put the lemon balm I bought at the markets into it.” He laughed softly as he took the bar to smell it on his own accord, and Alfred felt his heart race. “I was wondering when you were going to sneak that into something.”

Alfred laughed. "Well, now we will have scented laundry, dishes, and bodies for a good while," he sung as he skipped around him.

Arthur furrowed his brows as he sniffed it again. “Did you put alum into it?” He asked, sounding puzzled.

“Um,” Alfred stopped. “No. We don't even have any alum.”

An amused huff through the nose. "Well then we can't use it for laundry then, can we?" Arthur asked with his hands on his hips.

“No, we can still use it for normal laundry! Alum is only used for really really big _stains_ –” Wait a minute. Alfred narrowed his eyes. Arthur would say something snarky about that, wouldn’t he?

Without skipping a beat, Arthur raised an eyebrow and promptly deadpanned, “oh yes, we can still manage to have our clothes properly washed while the most vital ingredient in any serviceable soap for the household of Alfred Jones remains absent.”

Alfred gasped indignantly as he crossed his arms so tight he looked like a little huffy baby who just had their first toy stolen from them. Arthur could be so mean sometimes! “Hey! I don’t think –”

“Oh, I know you don’t. That is why you always get stains on your clothes.”

He gasped again, this time dropping the basket. He scrambled to pick it up, feeling relieved when he saw it landed face up and no contents spilled out. _Goddamn it!_ Even when he was expecting such a low blow, Arthur’s tone always managed to jolt him enough to drop something. Hah, maybe that was why he supposedly go so many stains on his clothes. He glared up at Arthur defiantly. “You’re so cruel! I’m not that bad, you know!”

“No, I suppose you’re not,” Arthur said wistfully after his teasing laugh died down. “At least you wash yourself with water after playing around in the mud. Most nations I know wouldn’t even do that.”

Alfred’s cross demeanor dissolved into disgust. “Most nations… wouldn’t…”

“Hygiene has changed a lot over these past few centuries, I will tell you that,” Arthur looked off into the distance, age-old memories flashing through his eyes. “You should have seen us all before the Renaissance came to a close. God, we had arguments over full immersion baths. Was water a clean substance? Was it safe to use?” He shook his head. “I always reasoned with myself that I felt fresher after a bath with water. Surely that is a sign of cleanliness?”

Alfred blinked. “People argued about… water being clean?”

“The hygienic aspects of water, yes,” he sighed. “I do remember once; Spain was telling me how he thought that water not only lacked hygienic qualities but was also _unhygienic_ in and of itself.” He rolled his eyes, “God help his soul. He believed that it blocked the pores of the skin. How do you respond to that?”

Alfred shuffled on his feet. He had to admit he was kinda grossed out by the thought. He could remember speaking to a couple of Puritan priests about hygiene. They told him that keeping clean and bathing were interconnected with morality in itself. That thing that reverend once told him, how did it go? Oh yeah, ‘hygiene is the first step towards cleanliness of the soul.’

That was the kind of culture he was exposed to during his coming-of-age. No series of decades or events would ever erode that sort of understanding from him. And he guessed… he guessed he took it for granted that everybody else thought like that too.

He always supposed it was the thing that people did. It was the reason he washed his hands and face every day. It was the reason he always made an effort to carry far more water than necessary to the house every time he went on his lonesome trips to the creek. It was the reason he made soap in the first place, the reason why he and Arthur headed down to the creek every week to fully immerse themselves under water. And the thought of not doing that… Gah! He just found it so gross. He was sure Arthur would think the same as well.

“So… you don’t believe in that too, do you?”

Arthur scrunched his face up in repugnance. “Oh, God no! Since when have I ever agreed with anyone from the Continent? Oh, bloody hell, no. Good Queen Bess and I were mocked for decades for our relentless efforts to bathe ourselves at least once a month! God, the way they went on about it, as if it were the biggest scandal in the world. It wouldn’t shock me if they thought we had exfoliating soap in our heads instead of brains.” He held onto the scented bar tightly, slowly shaking it in his clenched fist with intense deliberation. “I tell you, though, this is a good change in atmosphere. Here I have not a stranger who will judge me and debate with me over hygiene but rather you instead,” he smiled, “not only listening but also agreeing with me. Yes, it is a nice change in pace, for bloody once.”

Alfred smiled back at him as they continued to make their way down to the creek. Their full body clean routine was a weekly endeavor he would never dare trade with anything else. Every week was a rebirth, a nice refreshing baptism aided by the youthful ecstasy of splashing games and skipping rocks. It was nice to know Arthur valued this little time they had together too.

But sometimes a little voice would rise up from the back of his mind, telling him that public bathing was sinful, and he shouldn’t indulge himself too much. Usually he would always reason back with the poor little Puritan child. Statements like ‘ _We’re of the same household, it’s not public – it is private!’_ and ‘ _There’re never any strangers around, no way! It is safe!_ ’ were often things he’d repeat to the small boy. How was it wrong of them to bathe so peacefully in their own little private Garden of Eden? Nobody else was ever there. They weren’t hurting anyone. And with logic such as that, the small frightful child would soon be soothed, and he could go back to bed and rest easy.

But as they grew nearer to their location, Alfred’s child within suddenly woke with a great start, and he refused to rest. The small remnants of smoke were no longer a far distant, barely noticeable scent from faraway. It was tense and thick, and the grey lines that stretched over the bushes and trees, reaching for the clouds made it painfully clear; men had set up camp somewhere around here. And these people were absolute strangers.

It was why Arthur had been so wary about coming down to the creek all morning. Something was brewing in the air; he could feel it and he said it.

But Alfred had begged him, had sung, had spun him around and danced with him. He really really wanted to go. It was his favorite part of the whole week. They couldn’t skip it! They had to have a swim! C’mon, it was so much fun! How could they stay home? And that wasn’t even considering how much they’d smell if they’d chosen to skip it…

Eventually Arthur caved in – Alfred convinced him! – and off they hopped along that same trail they strolled down every week. He was trying his absolute best to ensure they were as far away from the camp as possible, and he was doing a good job so far. They couldn’t hear anyone from where they were, but that sure as hell didn’t stop them from seeing and smelling the smoke.

“Just be careful here, Alfred,” he commanded as the trees began to grow thicker. “The men in town say these people have been out here since the eleventh. They could not tell me exactly where, but see,” he pointed to the last stretch of smoke they could see before they strolled into the deeper woods, “the smoke is coming from the southern side. We are standing on the north. That is plenty of space between us – we are far enough to yell out our loudest cries and still not be heard.” He sighed, slowly letting out the heavy sense of unease that had been haunting his every move all morning. “It should be easy for us to stay clear of them.”

Alfred could tell very well from his tone, his posture, the way he seemed both tensed and slumped at the same time. He knew how frustrated and tired Arthur was from all of this. He hated not knowing what was going on around him. He hated being out of the loop, of being left behind in the shadows of the politics that were once his very life and soul. But for now, they were forced to work in such ghostly shadows for the sake of their own safety. Arthur understood that better than Alfred did. But that didn’t ease his distress from the lack of knowledge about the outside world. The best they could get were infrequent words said by middle-ranked officers corrupt enough to supply them with intelligence and a promise of silence in exchange for some good money they knew they didn’t have to spend in the first place.

From what they had managed to pay for, they knew the smoke came from a group of men who were camping out over there. Arthur told him they’d been protesting something for maybe four days now without a break. But that was all they knew. It was barely anything to expand upon, and it was beyond frustrating news for the both of them. Alfred was desperate to know what was going on with his people. Arthur was desperate to know what was going on outside of their home.

Whatever vital information they still had missing, they had no other way to reach it. They couldn’t exactly ask the governor to tell them what was going on – not only were they fugitives, but they were supernatural beings! Knocking on his door wouldn’t exactly lead them down a happy road. Rather, they’d had to face quite the contrary, so he was way, way, _way_ far out of the question. Oh well, the man seemed to have earned himself a reputation for being a bastard based on all the stories floating around the province. Alfred didn’t want to hear from such a man anyway.

They had to count their blessings, thank Missy and Matthew for the little donations they’d send every now and again. Appreciate the locals who always assert their solidarity by direct the taxman away from the sight of their hidden-away house. They kept up their act, made themselves likable in town, made themselves harmless to the locals. They were just two very young men, after all. One could call them a couple of boys, even. They were probably hiding from some soul-crushing father with an iron whip, or they ran away from their hometown to prove to the world that they were men who could take life on by themselves.

Why would anyone want to bother them? Especially when everyone around was just trying to make their own ends meet as well. Just let the older one do an errand here and there, give him money and thank him. Maybe even give the younger one a little sum for being such a kind boy, cleaning out the stable and shed so the new harvest could go in there.

That was how the two of them made it through. It was how they earned their honest wages and kept food on their plates. If by the off chance they couldn’t make anything for a week, however, then well, it was a good thing that all of Alfred’s houses in the south-most provinces were the once most loaded with Elizabethan treasures Arthur always used to shower him with. _Hah!_ and they were such nice gifts and old golden goblets that Arthur ended up ‘reclaiming’ – or stealing – some of them back for himself after they searched box after box, looking for items to trade the first time their budget ran tight.

“Wait,” Arthur said suddenly, coming to a halt. “Do you see that?” He asked with a sly smile.

Alfred followed his gaze, and surely enough, there she was! The stream of fresh water who had over time become their closest and most endearing friend in North Carolina.

“Ah, my dear creek,” Arthur sighed. “How could I ever feel apprehensive over seeing you so sweet?”

“I’ll race you to the water first,” Alfred said fast, skipping on his feet to let him process the words before bolting towards the flowing creek.

“I – how dare you!” Arthur cried out to the challenge, following him swiftly from behind. “Oh, no you don’t!” He laughed as Alfred skidded around, stopping him from reaching the water with his own body.

“You lost!” Alfred smugly smiled as he plonked his bare feet into the creek, splashing Arthur’s shoes while he was at it. Arthur opened his mouth to protest but Alfred beat him. “That’s the benefit of wearing no shoes,” he shrugged as he spun on his heel and took a few more steps until the water fully submerged his ankles. “You get to hop in faster!”

“I still think it’s savagery,” Arthur grumbled after him, prompting him to giggle again.

“Think that if you wish.”

Alfred looked up and around at all the trees. The sight would never grow old for him. Dark greens from the rich and well-fed leaves, tweeting birdies, little insects and ants creeping and crawling in the long tall grass and on the trees. The place was damp, like a world permanently coated in a soft layer of morning due. It was a world set in spring, preparing itself for the dawn of summer in just a few more short weeks. He sighed as he smiled. It was simply so peaceful here.

Arthur was right too, they could neither see nor hear any sort of trouble from the camp that made itself at home possibly a few miles south. Alfred felt himself relax as that little child’s nagging voice fully dissipated and his anxieties slowly dissolved into the water. There was nothing here that could harm them. Just the happy birds and beautiful scenery.

“I have to admit to you, Jones boy. Your land is quite superb.”

Alfred smiled sheepishly as he looked down and kicked his feet in the water. “Yeah. I suppose it’s real pretty. We have a good location, don’t we? Where we are so close to fresh, clear water. It’s nice to bathe weekly.”

“Yes,” Arthur agreed. “It is a blessing.”

Alfred smiles as set the basket down on a flat dry rock and continued to step into the depths of the water. As his clothes soaked, they stuck to his skin, making him feel a bit tight and restricted, yet he pushed through. He walked in until the water was just above waist height – the deepest the creek could go at this point – until he started to feel safe enough to undress.

“I still have no understanding for why you do that,” Arthur laughed.

Alfred’s face flushed in embarrassment. “I don’t know. I guess I feel more secure doing it like this. We have fresh changes of clothes anyway,” he shrugged. That was kind of the truth. He kept it that way because he’d always felt insecure about… well, down there. He just wanted to keep it hidden from others. It was also why he kept his undergarments on despite taking everything else off. He reasoned there was no harm in doing it.

“Very well then,” Arthur said as Alfred leaned down and splashed himself on the chest.

Ahh, how good it felt to take some time out for himself to feel refreshed. He gathered his wet clothes and shaped them into a wonky ball, chucking the pile out in a dramatic splat right beside the basket. He laughed as Arthur turned to look at it and process it before shooting him a tired expression.

“You right, there?”

“Yeahhsss…” He sung back with another light-hearted giggle.

He picked up a few of the rocks under his toes and began chucking them back into the water, laughing freely at the silliness of each plop and plonk. It felt so elating to finally be back here! It was something he needed so desperately. The thing he rode on to get by every week. He’d noticed heed been needing it more and more, especially after feeling riots grow more unruly in the towns. Chiefly that Regulator riot that happened over out in Hillsborough back in September. He still remembered that one. It stuck with him the most ‘cause it damn well hurt.

He sighed as he spread his arms out, letting them rest and glide over the top of the water. He then swung his arms until they clapped in front of him, then swung them in and back behind him – his fingers flicking the water up, making the little droplets form a pair of wings as they spread out from his hips. His satisfied laugh sounded out into the air, and he felt a sense of peace and tranquility overcome him.

He turned to look at Arthur and say something before quickly snapping back around, his eyes wide as he ogled the tall and sturdy tree in the opposite direction. He leaned down to pick up a few rocks and toss them back in the water, waiting until he finished undressing and got into the water.

Alfred was so desperate to not feed into any of his… lusts. He’d been trying his best not to pay it any heed. It wasn’t… right of him to think that way. But… he knew he loved Arthur. He’d reasoned that with Matthew.

He remembered their last talk, before his younger brother had set out to leave again. He remembered his honest apology, his anxieties as he watched Matthew raise an eyebrow and crossed his arms as he listened. The younger boy scolded him at first. But eventually, after his soft voice returned and he spoke with kind eyes and a loving heart, Alfred found he could make his peace with what Matthew had told him. He loved Arthur. And there was nothing wrong with loving another male.

Besides, he reasoned with himself in silent, he knew from his own people that all close friendships between men were commonly fortified by true love. Not only that, but it was something outright expected to happen for a boy his age while negotiating and developing his companionships.

But what was _wrong_ and unnatural – and the very thing Alfred still struggled to reconcile himself with – was the feeling of lust he’d been feeling for Arthur that grew stronger and stronger with each passing day.

No, it wasn’t love that was his quandary. It was the lust that tainted Alfred's love that was his real dilemma. The lust that – while against Matthew’s protests – was the thing that he was set on subduing. It was where he drew the line. It was where he seized all acts of pursuit, despite the tempting promises of happiness it seemed to present.

Nope. He was on the top of his game. And he worked hard not to make it any harder for himself. He was a good boy. He was also a smart boy. He knew how to manage himself, and he knew what his goals were.

“Are you looking out into space again?” Arthur laughed from beside him.

Alfred snapped out of his daze. Oh, so he was in the water now. “Yeah? I think so. I was just looking at the change in the trees. I’m excited for summer, it’s so soon now!” He beamed, overly proud of his smooth, secret lie.

Arthur nodded, “yes, your summers are quite warm. I find myself looking forward to them too.”

Alfred laughed freely, stomping around in excitement before feeling something rough against his foot. Humming with curiosity, he submerged himself, reaching down to pick up a long stick before flicking his head out of the water, spraying Arthur with a ray of droplets once more.

“Oi! Again? Really?” He cried out as he held out his arms to protect his face.

“Enn garrd! Let us duel!” Alfred shouted as he snapped the stick in half, each part slightly longer than a forearm. He chucked one half to Arthur, who snatched it up to his chest.

“That’s not how you pron – oh to hell with it, it’s French.” He inspected his weapon, nodding with satisfaction. “All right then. Let us see how quickly I can sweep you off your feet.”

They swung at each other a few times, Alfred wildly and unexpectedly while Arthur deflected with masterful dexterity and expertise. He humored Alfred by letting him win once before following up with five furthermore thrashings, making it certain the boy knew he had lost each time while also ensuring no physical harm had come to him.

After their eighth game, Alfred finally held his hands up in a bubbly and ecstatic defeat. “Alright! Alright! You have bested me! You win!” He cried, laughing himself almost to tears.

“Oh dear, it is a calamity!” Arthur sauntered pridefully. “The enemy has lost his mind in his defeat! He is delirious, this cannot be right! Oh, the Lord I pray to every day, please show him mercy.” And with that, he swung his sword up to reach out for the heavens. However, the poor beaten device had broken mid-way, and its top half went flying out into the air and landed into the faraway water with a heavy ‘plop!’

Arthur stopped short of his antics as he stood there stunned, his mouth and eyes wide open in shock before looking back at the tiny remnant of weaponry left in his hand. Alfred promptly burst out laughing as he frowned in such a funny way he’d never seen before.

“Oh no! Oh no!” He laughed as he searched around for another stick with his feet. Ahh! There! He dived back down to pick it up, and when he re-emerged, he noticed it was thicker than the last, much sturdier. Much more like a longsword now. He was pretty sure Arthur preferred those types anyway.

"Here you go, Arthur,” He said smiling, his hair completely soaked and dripping with water. “Here is your new sword. Call it Excalibur for me!"

The spell on Arthur breaks, and he comes crashing back into reality with the brightest laugh the creek had ever known. The enchanting sound rode on the wind and twirled through the trees, music to Alfred’s ears. He smiled softly as he looked down at the water that met with his skin.

“I am sorry, Alfred, but I must refuse your offer.”

“Huh?” He looked up at him, confused. “Why?”

“I cannot help it… The fate of the Lady of the Lake… Oh, it is too sad, and so very, very unhappy.” He smiled sweetly, “and a creature as pure as yourself deserves no unhappy ending."

Oh God. Alfred hoped he wasn’t blushing. “Umm,” he said. How could he respond to that? “Why is that? How did her story end?”

“Well,” Arthur began. “There are many different versions. In some endings her fate is left unanswered. In most of them, she dies. I still remember the very first time I ever read the story from a book.” He narrowed his eyes, “I believe it was in French. She made a deal with King Arthur; her sword in exchange for a favor. They agreed, he took the sword. When she came to ask for her deal to be honored, he refused, and the dangerous man she had sought for him to kill appeared and beheaded her in front of him. He didn’t honor their agreement, and when she was in peril, he was too late to save her.”

Alfred looked down again, watching his fingers run over the flakes of bark. “Oh. I didn’t know that.”

“Yes, well. Most entertainment is dramatic like that, isn’t it? It serves one good story. Keep in mind that is only one version, Alfred. There are many others.”

“You said it was in French?” He asked, confused.

“Yes.”

“Why would it be in French? I thought King Arthur was a British story…”

“Oh, it is. Of course, it is. But keep in mind French used to be the dominant language of my –” He narrowed his eyes again, seemingly hunting for a word that wouldn’t offend himself – “class of nobility, I should say. Ever since William the Conqueror acted on his claim to the throne Ed the Confessor promised him I have been stuck with French. Thank God for the House of Hanover. Now I at least get a mix of other languages at court.”

“But that was a long time ago. You and France have known each other for a long time, huh?”

“Yes, well. That would be understandable. We are cousins after all.”

“Are you? Really? More cousins!” Alfred was amazed. He’d always wished for a lot of family members. “Wow, you’ve really been blessed with a big family!”

Arthur huffed, unimpressed. “At least I believe so. I think our mothers were sisters, maybe.” He rolled his eyes. “It isn’t like it stopped us from fighting each other, though. In fact, it quite possibly may have been a contributor for our conflicts!”

“You think so?”

“It very well may be so. However,” he turned away. “I will admit he wasn’t… as vicious as the Vikings.”

Alfred frowned. “How often would those guys invade?” He asked, curious. From the way Arthur spoke about it whenever he did, it sounded absolutely awful. He wondered how hard it was, how frequently he had to endure it. Maybe something as often as once a year if it had really been that horrible. Alfred couldn’t even imagine that.

“Oh, probably about every two weeks there would be something new.”

Alfred’s eyes grew wide. “Every… Oh my God! How…” He closed his mouth quick as his own memories piled up. Flashes of plagues and famines and the pain of war. Of the loneliness of living without a companion while his own people scramble for survival. His life was not all sunshine and rainbows. He suddenly realized just how frequently his own people have been forced to endure such hardships as well. His frown grew deeper. Maybe he could imagine living through something as horrible as that after all.

“Come now, we should get ourselves cleaned up,” Arthur said distracted as he made his way to the basket.

Alfred nodded as he stood silently, waiting for him to return. He hopped and splashed around idly, suddenly feeling eager and super excited to use the new soap he'd made.

.

.

It always felt so good to be all scrubbed up and squeaky clean. And now, not only was he lying on the soft creek-side grass all dry, dressed and clean, but he also smelt like lemon balm! He was over the moon with joy, humming soft tunes as he rested next to a sleeping Arthur. They both smelt so good now! He was so proud of himself for his efforts.

He kicked his leg up and crossed it over his other. The little remnants of blue sky he could see past the trees burst through with soft little rays of light. He smiled at them kindly, giving them a warm welcome as they rested softly on his cheeks. This place was truly a Garden of Eden. A creek of Eden! He laughed to himself, closing his eyes.

His meditation lasted only a short time. To his great delight, his people seemed to feel as calm as he was. That would make sense. The people hoped to be listened to nowadays.

There was a peaceful petition, he believed. That’s what Arthur told him. A petition written recently that complained about all the corruption the current governor from Great Britain had covered himself with. He didn’t know much about it, but he could feel it greatly attributed to the ease he felt during his meditations. Because his people felt at ease too. And it had been so long since he could say that for the people in any of his provinces.

He tilted his head as he felt Arthur stir, smiling brightly as he watched those green eyes blink twice and look at him.

“Good morning, Mr Sleepy,” he chuckled as the latter sat up.

Arthur groaned in response, wiping at an eye with his hand. “How long was I asleep?”

“I don’t know. Not too long though. I couldn’t tell, I was meditation.”

“Oh really? How is that experience for you?”

“It’s going great! Everyone’s pretty satisfied and…” He sat up quickly, narrowing his eyes. “Hey… remember those men? The men in town, they were talking about something like a peaceful petition or something. Against the bribery and dishonesty of our officers and... and the governor.”

“Yes?” Arthur asked, concerned. He seemed like he was still half asleep.

“Do you…” He put on an attentive thinking face, “do you think these campers might be the same guys who signed it?”

Arthur finished rubbing at his face. He put a hand down, thinking up at the sky. He then nodded, impressed with the theory. “Yes, they very well may be.”

Alfred laughed. “Well, maybe we should joint them then. Fight against corruption. How do you feel about that?”

Arthur rolled his eyes, but he still smiled. “Ahh, they are my officers and governors, it would be sad to see them so dishonored,” he chuckled as he hung his head down. “But I do suppose if they do their job so terribly, then we might as well ask for a little peaceful exchange of leadership.”

“Yeah! I wonder how much better it would be if we just got to choose our own leaders ourselves…”

“That could work very well. We could ship in a few of my finest boys from the Isles. Line them all up, I choose the best one based on his presentation – and ta-da! New royal governor of North Carolina!” He sighed, “how great would that be…”

“Well, that’d be way more practical, wouldn’t it?” Alfred chuckled as he stood, grabbing the basket beside them and swinging it around as he watched Arthur stand.

It seemed Arthur was just as frustrated with the current governance as Alfred was. Good. Alfred was angry with it too. But he supposed he always was nowadays.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally going to be one half of a chapter, but I realized that compared to the rest of the fic... it is very long, so I broke it up. And so, this chapter turned out to feel much more domestic and ramble-y than I first expected. Haha, whoopsies for that!
> 
> Oh well. I hope it was enjoyable to read :D
> 
> Notes:
> 
> Arthurian legends have been passed around for centuries in both French and English. In 1485 Thomas Malory gathered up an abundance of them, translated them all into Middle English and published them under the name 'Le Morte d'Arthur'. It is probably one of the most well known Arthurian texts today, and has modern English translations if you wanna check it out. It's where I get most of my knowledge on the tales.  
> I'm assuming, however, that Arthur would have already read the dozens of previous copies and interpretations of these stories by its publication. And most of the book published versions were written in Middle French. Hence, I'd assume the first time Arthur got the chance to actually READ the story rather than hear it would be in French.  
> Oh dear... That poor Lady of the Lake... (;﹏;)
> 
> Hah! And the fact that Queen Elizabeth's contemporaries found her strange for wanting baths as frequently as (⚆_⚆) ONE MONTH!! is just insane. I just don't know how I'd live back then... I guess ignorance is bliss, though.
> 
> Hey, psst... Wanna know how to make colonial soap from the 1600s-1700s? ;) ;)  
> [Well, Pennsbury Manor has the recipe on their website... ](http://www.pennsburymanor.org/its-made-of-what-making-17th-century-soap/)
> 
> Until next time, tschüss!


	17. The year was 1771

Alfred tapped at the mechanical clock that sat at the head of their drawing room. It seemed to think it was midday. It was obviously twilight. He’d know. He had just woken up to the sweet sound of birds singing and the very soft return of light to their bedroom.

Hmm. Maybe he or Arthur knocked it while passing by one day. Or maybe it was broken. Arthur did say he stole it from a ship of Portuguese astronomers. Maybe that shortened its lifespan or something.

Alfred leaned back and put his hands on his hips. Mmh. He had noticed it was ticking strangely by yesterday afternoon, right after they got back from the creek. But he wanted to make sure the coast was clear before he searched through it and cleared it out himself. He couldn’t risk Arthur going to it first, pulling it apart to fix it. Then he’d see the stack of letters from a certain French nation he had stashed in there.

It was a good thing that Arthur was a heavy sleeper, always staying in bed and snoozing until it was time for him to rise for a scheduled action. The comparison worked perfectly for Alfred and his secret antics. He was a young boy who always thrived in the mornings, despite still being the one always late for other things. So, clearly he never made any practical use of his time. He would just be playing around if he was up so early. Feeding the birds, even. What sort of secrets could he really be hiding before anybody else in the household arose, anyway?

He opened the compartment behind the pendulum. It was of unchanged appearance since he had last seen it – great! He took out the stack of papers safely wrapped within hand-made envelops, carefully placing them down onto the table.

He stared at it for a bit, wondering what on earth to do with it. He’d never read through any of them. He didn’t want to. He just accumulated them, letter after letter, irritated by the words on top identifying themselves as Matthew’s, knowing full well that they were forgeries.

But despite his irritations, he could never have the heart to toss them into the fire. Something inside him just never let him do it. But now his safe hideout was in jeopardy. The clock wasn’t working. Arthur had a knack for fixing things and keeping them in order. They had to go. He had three candles with him to do the job. He had to burn them now.

He picked up the first one, slit it open swiftly before reading its contents. Nothing of interest caught his eye. He held it over two of the flames at once, one point catching on fire and crinkling into black ash. He threw it in the small can he had at his feet to finish it off and continued on to the next one.

He looked back nervously at the clock. It still ticked. The room was slowly getting brighter. He had to hurry up.

Letter after letter, he burned each one after reading what they said. Nothing of interest yet. Nothing of relevance. He started to think how ridiculous it was that he even kept them in the first place.

He continued on until he reached his hand out onto the table, noticing his fingers wrapping around the last one. It was the most recent one, too. He must have flipped the pile upside down when he got it out. He ripped it open, reading through the delicate cursive. He found it amusing France stopped pretending to be Matthew after he started writing a few paragraphs.

But wait… this writing was different. It was too firm, and the capital letters didn’t curve as drastically. It was no longer a work of art written onto paper, but a letter of information, of determined messaging. This wasn’t written by France. It must have been written by one of his correspondence.

He read the date. Oh. That was far to recent to be something sent all the way from France. It had to be from one of his colonial connections. Maybe even from this province. From in town, even, and that was damn well close by. Alfred wondered if one of his own people had written it, or France had sent some of his own people to spy on him. The latter thought made him shiver, but the former broke his heart.

He started skimming through it, narrowing his eyes as he noticed similarities between…

“Wait,” he whispered, sitting back. _The county mentioned here,_ he thought, captivated, _the creek…_ This letter must be about the camping men down south to the water!

He sat up again eagerly, huddling over the flames, careful not to let the letter catch alight.

What did it say? It was so hard to tell with this man’s ridiculous running writing. And he thought France’s was bad.

Umm… There were ‘ _rumors of a demonstration_ ’ going around. No, no. Those letters spelt out ‘ _duel situation_ ,’ he was sure of it. A duel, huh? So there was a duel planned down there… Oh my God, a duel!

That would make sense! Those men camping out there, he had no doubt about it – they were out there to spectate it too. That’s what the letter said, a sizable group of men had made themselves known out there. Maybe two or three of the men from town had finally had enough and challenged one of those retched government figures to a duel. Trying to rightfully put him in his place and make justice awake in front of a large audience.

He smiled brightly. So this was the reason that small piece of him wanted to keep these letters. He felt the excitement bubble up from within. So these men were fighting for their rights. He leaped forward, watching the paper ignite and burn and shrivel into nothing with a great sense of pride for his people.

Oh, he had to go and see this for himself! The anticipation for the action, the sense of ecstasy borne from knowing all these facts. It was like a weight had lifted from his chest. An anxiety from the shadows that withered away as it saw the light and came out of its hiding place, now brave. The light in the room grew brighter once again. The end of twilight was nigh. And the fire in his heart now had fuel.

He had to wait an hour before Arthur arose. When he finally walked into the room all dressed in proper attire, he was met with Alfred sitting on his seat, cheerfully re-reading his Bible.

He smiled at him. “The Geneva version? You still use that?” He asked amused as he raised an eyebrow.

“Of course!” Alfred laughed freely as he slammed it shut, looking up at him with great expectations. “How do you feel today?”

“I feel very well, thank you,” he said with a bow of the head. “And you?”

“As me as I’ll ever be,” he beamed a toothy smile, placing the book down to the side before turning back to listen to him eagerly.

“Well, as I told you yesterday afternoon. I am heading off now,” he said as he fixed his hair in the mirror.

Alfred nodded, understanding. He always wished he would get invited to one of Arthur’s meetings, but for just this once, he finally felt he had other things to do. “Alright then. Be safe! Oh, and have fun!”

Arthur smiled kindly as he moved on to brush off his shoulders, “as always, I shall try to follow your advice.” He turned to look at him in the eyes, “how about you, do you have any plans for yourself?”

“Yeah, I always do!” He cheered. He was an expert at entertaining himself alone, how could Arthur doubt that? He had to be when he found himself in that state so frequently. “Do you mind if I take a hike around the house?”

Arthur laughed, expecting that answer. “And as always, you know I never mind. I trust you will not seek any sort of trouble, though.”

“Oh, if there is any, I won’t get involved. I’ll just run straight home,” Alfred reassured him.

“Good,” he nodded, making his way towards the door before shouting, “have fun yourself, then!”

And the door opened, and then it closed, and Alfred was left all alone in the drawing room yet again.

He snapped straight into action, walking around the house, gathering a few snacks and a small rug. _It’ll be like a picnic!_ He chuckled to himself. He strolled out of the house and down the path. All the way to the creek, he jogged in a matter that felt like seconds. He ran alongside the stream, noticing with great delight a path of stones he could use to hop along and cross over the water. With a leap here and a leap there, he jumped and landed onto the south side of the river. And just like that, he was on his way again. He huffed and puffed as he followed the scent of smoke that stayed so pungent even after five long days of camping. It would be a breeze to find these guys.

He made sure he stayed in the trees, walking along the edge until he started hearing voices. Voices! He was so close! Ahhah! He almost squealed as he skipped through the bushes, buzzing with excitement as he spotted his first human. Ahh! A human! A human so close to his house! His giggles turned into fully fledged laughter as he moved in even more before squatting behind some shrubs.

His cheeky grin peeped up from over his hiding spot, and it grew wider as he saw even more men. There were dozens of them, just like the letter said! No, not even that. There could be hundreds of men here for all he knew! Wow, what a crowd! It completely and utterly blew him away. If the creek was nature’s Eden, then this place would surely be humanity’s own share of the claim as well!

Opp! He ducked his head as a couple of men passed a bit too close for comfort. He needed to make sure he kept out of trouble, as Arthur said. It wasn’t like he was lying to be here or anything, and he wanted to uphold his promises.

“Have we heard back from Tryon yet?”

“Nah. I asked the captain, he said ‘nah.’”

“Damn. When’s that bastard gonna give in? We’ve been waiting here for days! He’s gotta be tired of us by now.”

“Nah, don’t talk like that. You’ll get impatient about staying here, and it will do more harm to our cause than to him.”

Alfred listened intently as he shuffled through his bag of goodies. He took out a pastry Arthur made, and gave it a pensive look. Tryon, huh? He was that officer shipped in straight from Great Britain. The governor of this lovely place. So these men were all here in order to protest this guy. Maybe the duel they had planned was even gonna be against him! That would be one hell of a show to watch. He wished Arthur were here to enjoy it with him.

He waited for a while, nibbling on his slowly dwindling snacks on his nice soft rug before a few other men passed by.

“He still hasn’t responded,” one man groaned.

“Gah! How else would a tyrant like him respond, anyway? I didn’t expect anything less!” Another one began before he bended over in a coughing fit. “Fucking hell, there’s so much smoke here.”

Another voice, a more youthful man who ignored the foul language that preceded him started laughing. “Haha! A tyrant, eh? Tryon the tyrant! I like that alliteration.”

“Where the hell did you learn the definition of alliteration, Marshall?”

Before Marshall could respond, a couple of shots rung out, piercing the air with a sound loud enough to be heard over the screams of many men. Alfred jumped back, grabbing his rug and holding it tight as he scrambled to keep himself covered. His heart raced as he heard more men screech, some crying for their wives and mothers, others dispersing into the woods out in the far distance as they struggled to hide.

“Oh shit!” One of the shorter of the men cried out as another ran into him. His eyes were wide and wild as he shakily gripped his gun.

“Down the line, down the line,” he screamed, pointing to a faraway place Alfred couldn’t see but he sure as hell could hear. “Their militia opened fire! We’ve dispersed. Go home! Go home or you might die!”

“ _What?”_ The tallest one cried out, "A militia! How?”

Every fiber of Alfred’s being shook as he heard those words, his vision growing blurry as he began to sob, hearing multiple bouts of ‘ready aim fire’ and the cries of badly injured men in the far distance.

This wasn’t… he could barely process it. This wasn’t what he... What he wanted. This wasn’t… a militia… How? When? He couldn’t think straight… He thought that… Did the men here know this was going to happen? Did they… did…

The fire of a cannon ripped through his horrified thoughts, making him jerk up in an act of complete shock. “Oh my God!” He cried, spitting out from smoky lungs. A cannon? That was live cannon fire! “Oh my God,” he repeated, more quietly as he began to stand, shaking like a newborn lamb. He had to run now. He had to go. This was too much.

But at the same time, it wasn’t enough. That little child of fear begged him to turn and run. It concurred with him; they both wanted to leave. The poor boy begged again and again to take him home. He wanted to do that for him. But another side of him wouldn’t have it. It wouldn’t let them. It wanted to crawl, to sliver over and see more. To climb up the pathway and watch the cannon blow things apart with his very own eyes. It didn’t believe there was really a cannon. It couldn’t believe it. There couldn’t be. Where the hell would it come from? Where did it come from? No, it must be fake. Just an illusion. Of course it was an illusion! Alfred had not been served what he had been promised. It had to be.

It forced him into a trance, making him move step by step through the woods as he walked for maybe a mile, maybe half. It didn’t matter, because Alfred had no control over himself. This hunger did instead. It wanted him to see. It wanted him to know. It’s venom pulsed through his veins, forcing him to move, and he couldn’t get it out. Tears flowed down his face as he bowed his head. He wanted to go home.

With each step, he realized just how many men there were. All his prior judgments had been wrong. He must have only seen the men at the very outskirts of the group, because now he had reached where the main ordeal had happened. There must have been thousands of men here, most of them who had run away by now. Some of the slower ones gave him confused looks as the passed him. One even stopped him and screaming at him to turn around. He pushed the poor man away with ease, continuing on as if he were possessed. He felt possessed. Maybe he was.

He didn’t notice exactly how the waving world around him moved until he finally reached the heart of what had so quickly become a fully matured battlefield. His whole body tensed as he watched men load a round into a cannon and quickly let it fire. His legs tripped over the wooden canteens littered all over the ground left by those in a hurry. He felt his very soul shake for every shout and scream he heard.

His eyes scanned over the multiple men, one side in uniform, hesitant in their actions as they stood there coated in their red fabrics while the other side was not, but rather coated in the blood of their fallen brothers and a lust for justice. He closed his eyes as he finally felt the spell break. It was if his unearthly possessor had seen enough. He could go home now.

But he found himself so tired. And so he continued to watch the scene before him, feeling both horror and honor in the events that played out.

The few brave souls who chose to stay refused to budge from the land they had formerly camped on. Some were wild men making wild moves, charging at the men in red with primitive weapons such as clubs and pikes.

These men were crazy. Apart from the trees in the background where Alfred remained, the land on which these men fought on was as barren and vulnerable as an open paddock. There was nothing near these men could take meaningful cover behind. There was nowhere for them to hide, only run.

But these men did not run. Instead they ordered themselves in lines as best they could, firing together round after round in prideful display, fighting for what they saw as their chance for freedom. Alfred could not help but admire the looks on their faces.

However, as his eyes slowly glanced down, that admiration was swiftly replaced with a different feeling. His lip quivered as he hugged at the tree beside him. Down below were the bodies of men.

Some were twisted strangely in ways no living man would ever sleep, while others had gaping holes in the backs of their bodies. Some twitched, some did not. Some… some of their faces were turned towards him. Those were not looks he could admire, but rather fear. So lifeless, so pale. They were not possessed, but rather exorcised. The men they fought against had taken their souls.

He had never seen a battlefield before. He knew his people had suffered these fates before, and he had felt it in his body, but he had never truly _seen_ it. It was not how he expected. It was so orderly, icy, aloof, impersonal. It was uncaring, unlike any war story he’d ever heard.

He always thought his fear was rather red and hot; yet this battle was cold, barren and hopeless. He knelt down, leaning further into the tree. He wished its bark was Arthur’s back.

He looked off to a remote patch of green grass, nearly closing his eyes to get away before he heard a strange cry. A man tumbled into his vision, moaning and moving as he clutched at his chest, begging his brothers to help with the blood. He fell right into his line of sight, and as the man caught his eye, his look of fear turned to anguish and shame. Alfred could read what was in those sad amber eyes. A child was watching him die. How could he be so pathetic and let a child watch him die?

Alfred heaved, and that heave turned to sobs. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, kicking the dirt up as he struggled to stand and back away. “I’m sor…” His voice broke as he held his hand to his mouth, trying to keep his sound subdued. He took some more steps back, then some more, until he turned away fully, springing as far as he could back to his home.

He nearly tripped over the stones that bridged the two sides of the creek together, stumbling multiple times as he cried out to God. He had to go. He had to cast himself out of Eden. This wasn’t right. This couldn’t be right. Battles like that shouldn’t have to happen. Those men didn’t intend to fight it out up against a militia! They didn’t intend to die!

He let out a few more ugly sobs as his vision blurred, making it hard to reach out for the door handle. He was home now. He was in home. He was walking into the kitchen. What was he going to do there? He didn’t know how to stop the pain, the fear, the agony. His racing heart, his broken mind. His jittery body.

He wanted his rug. He reached out to get it. Oh. He had left it there. No! That was his favorite rug! He couldn’t have done that! He cried out some more as he fell to his knees, leaning his head onto the bottom cabinet of their food storage. He swung it open angrily before realizing what he was doing.

Arthur kept all his gift alcohol in here. He never drank it, he said gifted drinks from town officials always tasted like piss. Alfred didn’t care. He’d never had alcohol before. He had nothing to compare it to.

He picked up a bottle and flicked off the lid. He had no idea how to drink, but he did. Gah! How horribly the stuff burned the back of his throat! How disgusting! It was revolting. How could anybody ever drink it?

He dowsed down the whole bottle while thinking about what sort of scoundrel the man who gave it to his dearest Magna Arthur was like. Who would do this? What sort of official would give this as a gift? He glared at the bottle, swinging it from side to side like a pendulum before his eyes. He must have sat, contemplating it for minutes; whoever that bastard was - the original owner of this bottle - or whatever rank he came from, would he be the type of man to open fire on a group of unsuspecting men like Tryon did?

Dammit, how could this happen? Why did this happen to him? His men were not expecting that at all! He knew it! He could feel it in the air, in his soul. He didn’t dare mediate because he knew he was right; the pain of it would be too much truth. Oh, how was this fair? If it wasn’t… ahh… if this wasn’t corruption, then he didn’t know what... corruption was.

Was it normal for his vision to twirl like that? Was his head supposed to spin? Was he supposed to get the hiccups so deep and heaving, completely winding him and punching his gut? Ahh... He took another long sip of his disgusting, dry drink.

He’d never been drunk before. He… he _hated_ the feeling. He hated it! He felt no relaxation at all. Rather, all he could feel was his head spinning. His head lolled from side to side, sloppy and mindless. It made him feel like he had no control over himself. It only served to make him more paranoid. No! He wanted out of this... He didn’t want to be drunk anymore!

He struggled to stand, but he flopped back over as the real dizziness kicked in. He yelped as his whole world spun, and he cried out for Arthur to help him. He felt something sting his arm, and he turned over to see shards of glass on the floor. Oh no, the bottle was ruined. But his mind was ruined. His vision wouldn’t stop swimming. He started to cry again as he heard Arthur’s voice shouting.

“Arthur,” he wept as he felt his great nation cradle him, and hold him tight. He was so embarrassed to find himself this same old weeping, slumped-down position with Arthur yet again. It was just like that time in Boston. Oh yeah, it had a name now. They called it a massacre. The _Boston Massacre_. God, how the sound of that sorry name scared him. And now something similar has happened again, down south. It made him feel so miserable.

He looked up to the wavy, wobbly Arthur. For some reason, his arms tried to swat him away, but his mind begged for his tight embrace. Eventually, his body gave in and let Arthur hold him. His hands proved too kind for his swaying self to reject them. His singing voice far too soothing. And his handkerchief slowly dabbing on his cut-up arm too soft.

He sighed as he watched everything slowly go black.

.

.

They held hands as they looked out the window together, taking the time to point out each and every beautiful part of the landscape they could see.

It was Arthur’s way of helping him deal with what he could.

They didn’t speak of what happened much, Arthur had put two and two together. He came racing home straight after hearing from officials the sort of news he always found himself dreading; that those camps were far more dangerous and - albeit unknowingly on behalf of the Regulators - doomed from their very start.

He didn’t blame Alfred for what happened, and that brought the younger boy some great comfort. He did blame himself, however, for letting him know too much and get too curious about it. And Alfred didn’t know how to respond to that.

So he didn’t. Rather, they both tried their best to distract themselves by looking at the beautiful things. The butterflies, the beautiful skyline as the sun set.

A few times, Arthur went down to the creek himself, carrying back buckets and buckets of water. He boiled it, and gave it to Alfred, telling him it to drink it and it would help with the hangover.

Alfred thanked him, but he said nothing more. No, rather his mind overworked itself too much for him to speak. He never wanted to see that sort of corruption again. He never wanted to feel himself crying on the floor like that again. He knew that was naïve, and that he probably will eventually feel that way again. If it were really that easy, then the world would have fixed all their problems long ago. But he still wanted to try for himself. For his people, and for Arthur and Matthew’s peoples too.

He knew those sorts of thoughts were dangerous to have, and he knew that Arthur would protest if he could hear it. He would say it was too perilous; it was not worth risking them any harm. But Arthur had always been fine with corruption if it meant that he and his loved ones were safe. So that was what Alfred was there for, to convince him otherwise. To prove to him they could do better. That they could have better…

And he was willing to fight for it. Not just speak about it, but genuinely act and really, really physically _fight_ out there for it. Tooth and nail. Straight to the point. He had been feeling enough of this docile torture as of lately, and he was ready to end it. He narrowed his eyes coldly, knowing exactly what he wanted. France and Alamance were the final pushes that made him bite away; they had become his daring, tempting serpent.

Now, all he had to do was ask his own Adam to stand up and fight alongside him.

It was a damn good thing he knew how to sway and persuade even a great bear such as Arthur himself, then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Tra la, it's May, the lusty Month of May  
> That lovely month when everyone goes blissfully astray  
> Tra la, it's here, that shocking time of year  
> When tons of wicked little thoughts merrily appear”  
> \- Queen Guinevere, Camelot [1960]
> 
> Historical notes:
> 
> The Battle of Alamance happened on May 16th, 1771. From [the NC Historic Sites government website,](https://historicsites.nc.gov/all-sites/alamance-battleground) you can access videos of re-enactments, webpages on historical information about the events, fashion and use of arms. Here’s its pretty well-detailed [Wikipedia page too.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Alamance)
> 
> Contrary to what Alfred believed and mentioned in the previous chapter, the people of NC were not ‘at ease’ after signing their petitions but rather merely ‘subdued’ by force from the oppressive acts and abuses carried out by government officials. They did try to be peaceful at first, but eventually they started getting violent out of frustration with the establishment and their blatant disregard for following their very own laws even after imposing them upon others. This of course, let to the eruption of battle seen at Alamance Creek, which was a decisive government victory due to Regulator disorganization.
> 
> Surprisingly, many Regulators [rebels fighting against the government’s fees, taxes] ended up becoming loyalists during the Revolution, whereas some government officials ended up siding with the patriots. Was that opportunism? Or a change in heart? Who knows…


	18. The year was 1772

Alfred was really happy with how things were going. Days passed, months. A year, even. Time went fast the more fun they had. In fact, the next day was going to be September. Through each season, each month, he shared more and more of his thoughts with Arthur, getting him to agree here and there and understand his points of view.

He thought things were going great between the two of them. They smiled, they laughed, they gardened and wrote poems. Alfred’s were often awful in sound, while Arthur’s were more agreeable to the ear. He didn’t mind their contrast in talent, though; he would laugh it off and go back to playing the piano.

Arthur bought a new violin, and he would play along with the rhythm every now and again. But most of the time he would sing. Sometimes they would write the lyrics down in a letter and press a few flowers, sending them up for Matthew and Missy to enjoy. Other times they would keep the songs to themselves, and Alfred would have Arthur’s sweet serenades to swoon over all alone.

His voice was so beautiful. It was angelic. Almost as gorgeous as his green eyes. Alfred snuggled into his soft cushioned chair as he listened to him speak. It was a fancy one, all new and handmade with Renaissance patterns Arthur managed to only just afford as a Christmas gift. He rested in it every day to make the purchase worth it, sitting adjacent to Arthur in his own old chair as he read out the paper the same way he always did.

He spoke with intricate inflexions to make each story exceedingly dramatic, allowing Alfred’s bursts of laughter and snide comments to give him short breaks where he could sip his tea.

“Mm, that is interesting,” he mumbled before placing the steaming cup down on the chairside table. “An infamously known travelling orchestra should arrive in the city shortly.” He shook the paper to straighten it better. “I wonder why it has been dubbed as ‘infamous’.”

“Oh! I know about that. I think there was a sex scandal behind one of the brass players or something.” Alfred giggled as he sat up to find better comfort.

“Ahh,” Arthur’s eyes sparkled. “Somebody caught blowing an instrument that wasn’t theirs?”

Alfred mocked a horrified gasp before confirming with a coy smile, “I think so.”

“Hah!”

Alfred shuffled in his seat again, catching a glimpse of the fancy font written all over the paper. “Hey, that looks different to the stuff you normally read out.”

“Yes it is,” Arthur nodded, as proud as a lion. “It’s the more expensive print. We’ve become stable enough to finally afford it.”

Alfred bounced up on his seat. “Oh! Is that the one that’s got all those pictures printed throughout?”

Arthur nodded with a sensitive smile, his eyes skimming over the more premium paper with pride. “Yes.”

“Oh, well then you gotta show it to me!”

“All right,” he chuckled as he turned the page. “I’ll show you the next one when I see it…”

He continued to read more forgettable points, events, and notices. Each and every word said was a musical note, making Alfred focus more on the beauty of Arthur himself rather than whatever he was saying. Until the British nation paused, took a deep breath in and shuddered.

“Arthur?” Alfred asked, frowning.

His eyes widened as he spoke aloud the words on the paper, uncertain of himself as he struggled to fathom their connotations. “ _On the ninth of June, a British customs schooner_ – that is… that’s a type of ship, by the way – _had been,_ umm, _attacked_ … _in Rhode Island_ … The ship was set alight by protesters.” He paused, left in a state of shock. “I cannot find anything about any casualties – which is good – but by God, Alfred. Look at the drawing.”

He passed over the paper and pointed to a grand illustration of sheer catastrophe and chaos. The lines were slightly smudged, as if printed by a novice who worked poorly with woodblock engravings. It must have been either that or those deep, dark, gashing lines represented smoke instead. A smoke that made the image of an oddly tilted ship look even more helpless than it already was, surrounded by fuming flames and a group of manic men who had crowded themselves on a bunch of jolly boats off to the distance. The title below read ‘HMS Gaspee Sinks’ in bold, loud, defiant ink.

“That must have cost a fortune to replicate and reproduce on a series of papers,” Arthur whispered in a sorry attempt to distract himself, turning away as he rubbed at his eyes.

Alfred stared at the image, still. The title threw him off. It seemed almost to celebrate the sinking. He shook his head and kept his distance. “Why would they do that? Why would they… sink it?”

Arthur sighed as he took the newspaper back and held it in his lap. “The paper mentions something about the people’s growing upset in the ‘overly controlling’ British management of Colonial rum manufacturing, maritime trade and…” He coughed uncomfortably before continuing. “So, it was captured and burned after being led into shallow waters while chasing a packet ship that may have been suspected of smuggling.”

“Suspected?”

“Yes, suspected,” Arthur repeated, sounding unimpressed. “It must have been one of those ships enforcing the Navigation Acts,” he sighed.

Alfred shifted in his seat and clenched his fists. “Why would they feel the need to chase down a tiny little merchant ship based on an uncertain allegation?”

Arthur leaned heavily onto his armrest, rubbing his forehead with his palm. “I don’t know,” he murmured before lifting his head to look at him. “I admit…” He huffed, almost amused in his own exhaustion. “It reminds me a bit of an old aggressive bloodhound chasing down a rabbit. She needs to eat it to survive, but for all we know her snout could be broken, and she is attacking an innocent instead.”

Alfred pursed his lips, frowning at the thought. “Poor rabbit,” he whispered loudly. “I think he’s innocent too. I wouldn’t want to be dogfood just because I was born a rabbit and others decided they could eat me.”

Arthur let out a hollow laugh, smiling at the ceiling. “Yes, I suppose it is all quite unfair on the rabbit too.” He looked back down at the paper. “The poor rabbit,” he sounded softly as he folded it up and tucked it away.

Alfred stood up, walking over to Arthur and taking his hand. “I used to have a rabbit as a pet,” he said as he got Arthur to stand on his feet. “Way back when I was younger.”

“I remember when I first found my pet rabbit,” he smiled, welcoming the more innocent thoughts that worked to fill up his head. “All the way back when I lived under the Plantagenets.”

“The… who?”

Arthur laughed. “The house that King John belonged to. The king who was forced to sign the Magna Carta.”

“Oh!” Alfred exclaimed. It was exciting to be talking about this sort of stuff again. Every time he heard one of Arthur’s stories, and of his ideals that counted – the ongoing aspiration for greater liberty and the never-ending effort to seek it – he got excited. It was proof they thought of the same things, they dreamed of the same things. Their hopes for the future held a similar foundation. They were willing to fight battles for the very same thing.

It brought him to such great elation to think that with each talk, he was bringing progress to his cause, reminding Arthur of the ideas he fought for and cementing the very fact that they were on the same side.

“Did your rabbit have a name?” Arthur asked, curious, and Alfred snapped back to his senses.

“Huh? Umm, yeah. He did. His name was Bo.”

“Really?” Arthur appeared almost amused, but his eyes showed something else Alfred couldn’t quite recall. “How cute. My bunny, I named her Minty.”

“Aww,” Alfred looked down as he kicked at the ground. “I wonder if they would have liked being each other’s friend.”

But Arthur wasn’t paying attention. He was looking off into the distance, the emotion in his eyes now easily defined as fear. His hand tensed in Alfred’s before he pulled away, crossing his arms and turning towards the window.

“This isn’t working,” he hissed as he opened it wide, scrambling for the comfort of some sort of seaside-esqe breeze.

“Arthur?”

“How can I live with the knowledge of my ships going up in flames?” He hunched over the window as he turned to look into Alfred’s eyes. “Protests to the likes of this… This is clearly the most climactic of them all. God,” he shook his head. “I should be doing more to protect everything. Instead, I sat back and watched as those Townshend Acts riled everybody up and did nothing.”

“But they’re not your fault, Arthur…” _They’re from your government, not you_. Alfred tried his best to soothe him, but he didn’t really know what to do. He wasn’t expecting Arthur to seem so uneasy all of a sudden. How did this happen? They were only just talking about bunnies…

Arthur let out an angry groan as he shut the window quick and began fiddling with the fireplace. “These sorts of actions are unacceptable in civil society,” he hissed.

Alfred stood dumbstruck, confused. “Wait,” he began as he tried to follow Arthur tampering around with the room. “The acts or the protests?”

Arthur paused, looking at him for a good, silent while before breathing out a trembling breath. “I’m not so sure anymore.”

Alfred didn’t exactly understand what he meant, but it did make him stop and think. A ship had just been burned. It had been captured and burned to the ground after it got stuck in shallow water.

And then it really hit him. Something had been set on fire. His people had committed arson as a form of protest … that’s… God. He sat back down on his seat. “This is pretty violent, Arthur. Isn’t it? It’s… it’s pretty violent.” So this was what it looked like to have these sorts of things talked about – to have them worthy enough to be written in the news. These were the sort of risks taken, the sort of risks _celebrated_. The sort of thing he had to learn to take part in if he ever wanted to fight tooth and nail. To get things done. To be taken seriously.

But at the same time, it didn’t seem well-rounded. This wasn’t done with a militia. It wasn’t a group of volunteers camping out in protest. This was an impulsive attack akin to the terrorizing events of Boston, yet far greater in size and scale. And the fire was not from an officer's command and his gun, but rather the hands of Alfred's own people. It sounded hectic, and it sounded dangerous - especially if there were any innocents involved, oblivious to the causes of each side albeit very knowing of the wounds they sustained from the fight.

“Are we gonna do anything about it?” He asked, refusing to look up. It suddenly occurred to him that all these risks might cause them both some serious harm. “Are we safe?”

“Yes,” Arthur replied, desperate but without hesitation. Alfred heard his restive footsteps come closer before he felt firm hands clench over his shoulders. “I’ll do all that is necessary to keep us safe; together and forever. I…” Alfred looked up to see Arthur shake his head. “I merely need a moment to consider how I should go about this.”

Alfred nodded, and let Arthur get lost in heavy thought as he leaned on his shoulder. He just needed to give him some time out, so he could sort himself out.

“Alright,” he whispered. “I believe you.”

A few hours had passed before Alfred felt his stomach rumble. He tried to giggle at the sound. Anything that would elate his mood. He skipped around the house, looking for wherever Arthur had run off to. He wanted to ask him something. He was craving some more fresh fruit.

“Arthur!” He called out. “Where are you?”

He passed a couple more doors before he heard a distant “in here!” behind him.

“Huh?” He chuckled as he spun around on his heels. “How did I manage to pass you?”

He ran into the spare room where Arthur kept his favorite playscript notebooks. There, he was sitting on the bed, pleasantly distracting himself with a good read or two, based on the pile of open books beside him.

“Oo,” Alfred cooed. “Is that Shakespeare?”

“No,” Arthur’s small smile betrayed his want to focus on reading. “Kit Marlowe, the showstopper to pave way for him.”

“Oh. Well, I’m hungry –”

Arthur laughed. “When are you not?”

“And I crave some sweet fruit. Only trouble is we have no fruit in our garden – which I think is a waste. So can we please go into town and buy some fruit. Maybe then I can even buy some seeds and then boom! We have ourselves a new project to work on together.”

Arthur closed his book, apprehension in his eyes as he considered what to say. Yet he eventually let it all go and said, “make sure you buy all you need and then come straight back. I think it is best that we… lie low for now.”

And so Arthur sent Alfred off on his way, making sure he understood where he was going, what he was doing. Not to talk to any strangers. Yes, yes, he got all that. By now he was just ecstatic to leave the house and watch his people buzz from place to place. He could watch people smile and chatter, converse and curtsy.

It was a long lonely walk, all alone as Arthur ended up being absent, dealing with his own headache. But Alfred wasn’t mad. It gave him time to hum, sing, dance around in the wind. Throw his basket into the air and catch it as it fell back down. It gave him time to focus on the fresh air around him, and fully immerse himself in the land of his own people.

As a matter of fact, it didn’t feel like a long walk at all. It couldn’t have been, because he was standing in front of the fanciest fruit stall in town already.

“How do you do?” He cheered at the man who stood at the front, making him jump as he dropped whatever thing he was carving.

The man said a few unprofessional expletives before he stood up tall and glared down at him. “Couldn’t you have warned me first?” He hissed.

Alfred blinked before raising an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Warned you… that I was going to greet you?” He crossed his arms. _Well, that’s not how greetings work, mister._

The worker sighed before turning around, grabbing a bag of fabric that he had behind him and wiping away the blood that spilled from his fingers. How was Alfred supposed to know that he was so jumpy?

He tried to ignore what he had caused, along with all the unpleasant sounds of the man’s objections and complaints as checked out all the foods that were for sale. “You sure have a lot of berries in here, mister,” he said as he tried to absolve the tension.

“Well, they are the fruit that is most often abundant around here,” the strange man grumbled. “It’s easy to make money off them.”

Alfred paused. “So most of these are wild grown?” Why would he waste his money buying something he could pick himself?

The man before him seemed to panic. “Only in this section over here. But they’re safe, I promise. Over there is –” he pointed to the other, much larger stall off to the side – “where all the fruit from the farms come in.”

Alfred headed off to the bigger stall, the man following right behind him to shoo off another couple of men already standing there. They were arguing about something – loud and passionate. It looked like they were almost going to brawl.

“Hey!” The shop owner called out. “Cut that out!”

“I was merely stating the Prime Minister had no right to pass legislation such as that, expecially if he has never even taken a single step on this land!” One of them cried before the other man behind him took in a deep breath, ready to retaliate.

But neither of them got to speak. “No, both of you stop. There is a child in here. Get out.” The closer man seemed affronted before the shop owner spoke again. “Get him out of here, Peter.”

“Should I leave?” Alfred asked.

“Oh, no. You stay. I don’t think a young boy like you should get all cooped up about this sort of talk,” the owner said before slapping the louder man on the back of the head as 'Peter' dragged him away. “Stupid nephews,” he sneered.

“Why were they arguing about…?” Alfred paused. What was the man’s name? The Prime Minister they were arguing over?

The shop owner sighed, rubbing his forehead. “We’ve been informed not to tell children. Here, I’ll give you some candied fruit and you can be on your way. You won’t have to pay.”

“No, I want to know.” Alfred said it before he understood the connotations.

“Take it as a payment for the blood you made me spill.”

Alfred took a step away from him, affronted. “I don’t need candied fruit. I came here for real fruit, and maybe some seeds.”

“Then I’ll give you that instead.”

“I’ll pay you for it.” Alfred snapped back, unsure of why his voice was so adamant.

The man sighed, caving in before he rolled his eyes. “Oh, they were bickering about the Grenville Acts. Sugar, money, paper. The unprecedented nature of these taxes. The same things all the adults have been arguing about. Are you satisfied now, boy?” He leaned into an old rickety rack of kitchen items he had for sale. “You should not get involved with these debates, sirrah. I’ve seen families ripped to shreds over these sorts of pointless arguments.”

Alfred passed his basket from one hand to the other, shaking his head. “There are so many policies these days, I… I forget which one is which.” He tried to laugh, feeling guilty for encouraging the man’s so exhausted expression.

“So do I, sometimes.” He sighed. “Nobody forgets the Quartering Act, however.”

“No,” Alfred replied. Not after Boston.

“Neither does anyone forgive the Navigation Acts, for that matter." He huffed, humored, "nor the late Grenville’s supposed extensions of them, either.”

Wait a minute. Alfred furrowed his brows, suspicious. The Navigation Acts? Those were the series of laws Arthur mentioned earlier, weren't they? Alfred cleared his throat, determined to find out the truth. “Those acts were why the Gaspee was burned down a while ago, right?”

The man straightened up, tight and tense and looking at him like he was crazy. “Jesus,” he whispered. “Boy, who let you read the news? How do you know of these events? You should be quiet. You should not talk like that! You could start another riot down here with that sort of talk." He shook his head, slow and stern with a cold look in his eyes. "It took months for the passion of the Regulators to finally burn out. Now, don't you be responsible for its re-ignition, chi-”

“But was it?”

He sighed, his voice now tinged with agitation. “Yes, they were part of it. More often than not it’s them Parliamentarians way over in Britain impeding on our otherwise effective and free-flowing trade system of maritime merchandise, slaves... and not to mention the sheer amount of rum they make up in Rhode Island!”

“ _Wait._ ” Alfred felt his heart sink down to his stomach. “Slave… trading?” Arthur never mentioned that.

“Yes, Parliament keeps trying to interfere in our…” The man continued to speak, but Alfred couldn’t hear him. He merely stood, struck dumb as his eyes began to sting.

He blinked and another person walked in. The man before him appeared to become frantic, picking up some fruits and stashing them into his basket before ordering him to get out immediately. He left without paying, standing there dumbstruck.

His walk home was far more than just awkward. It was uncertain, uneasy. He felt like something was wrong with his heart, his lungs, his whole chest. He struggled to breathe.

When he opened the door, Arthur had already set up the fireplace. His hands were outstretched before it, and he turned to look at Alfred, smiling, before his smile dropped and he was frozen into a state of fearful shock.

Alfred stood there for a moment, suddenly fuming, before he reached into his basket, grabbing the hardest thing in there, and throwing the fruit at him with a supernatural force. Arthur ducked quickly, watching as the fruit slammed straight into the stone wall behind him, exploding on impact and leaving a massive almost irreparable dent. Alfred gasped as he dropped the basket, unsure of what overcame him. Of what possessed him to do that. He had been timid so long, away from it all for so long. He forgot he even had such strength.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to the man who was supposed to be his Adam, not some target practice for his anger, all new and scary in its sudden ruthlessness. “I…” He tried to continue, but he found out with great shock that the guilt didn’t last too long. Instead, he tried recomposing himself. No, he had to try and be respectable instead of acting so wild. If it were even possible to regain civility after such a display of explosive emotions. “How come you never told me about all the reasons that ship had sunk?”

Arthur blankly stared at him for a few moments before he tensely tried to explain. “Certain trades must be restricted with accordance to British law, and the people must comply with these laws. If they are smuggling above these restrictions, then they must be punished. It is a crime no different to tax evasion, I failed to see why it was a necessary point to bring up for you.”

Alfred wheezed, “no different to tax evasion?” He felt his throat close up as he rubbed his chest. “How is this even comparable to tax evasion?”

“Because taxes pay for the sake of bettering and protecting this Empire. They already don’t bring in enough money than they need to, which is why they’ve been increasing lately.” Arthur’s voice started growing louder, yet more despondent.

“Taxes have increased again?” Alfred bleated. He couldn’t believe it. Now the whole situation was just getting ridiculous. “Since when?”

Arthur turned his head away. “Very recently, now.”

Well, that was another new thing for him as well! Yet another detail Arthur had been keeping from him. How many more of those were there? Alfred laughed dryly before flashing an angry smile. "Oh,” he snarled, “drop dead, Arthur."

Arthur huffed, tense and offended. There was no malice in his eyes, but rather hurt. “Oh, grow up, Alfred. These taxes are not even that severe. My own people are being taxed much higher than you are, you know that!”

“How can you say they’re not severe?” Alfred gasped. Arthur was deflecting, he knew he was. But Alfred let him rile him up anyway. “You know, I heard that the very year we got bake home, there were riots going down in the streets in response to the Stamp Act. How is that not severe?”

“Oh, for God’s sake, that happened both here and back in Britain too! People are angry over these conditions everywhere. Everyone is going through them. That is why I need the money. So I can rebuild after that war where _I_ served to protect you. I fought for _you_.”

Alfred shook his head. He’d had enough. “You’re going off topic! I don’t care about…” He stopped himself before a mistake was made. “This isn’t…” He cried out in anguish. “You lied to me earlier today!”

Arthur’s tone softened as he tried to reach out a hand. “No I did not, I just left out some details that were unnecessary for you to hear.”

Alfred slapped his hand away. “That’s not an excuse to lie to me about the sort of things that are going on! You can’t just keep certain details like that out of a narrative! That’s a part of lying, Arthur.” His eyebrows furrowed as he analysed the ground, confused. His mind raced as he recalled all the things they had said to each other.

What else had Arthur been keeping from him? If he kept that, then he was probably holding back on other points of information as well. He tensed his fists, and found he couldn’t let go. Everything he thought he was working towards seemed to be toeing a very thin line towards a greater destruction. “Why would you keep this from me?” The question came out as an accusation from deep within his sickly heart.

Arthur stomped his foot on the ground, reaching an arm out again, pleading for comfort as he took the form of a stubborn beggar. “Because I knew the knowledge of this would be unkind to you!” He cried.

“That doesn’t mean you get to hide stuff from me!” He shouted back. “I don’t need you to protect me all the damn time!” His breathing grew rapid, and he looked around the room in a daze, struggling to make sense of things. But he refused to stop. He had to make Arthur see his side.

“Y’know, for the past one hundred and fifty years I have been –” his voice cracked horribly – “nothing but neglected by the Crown…” He took a deep breath in. “The only king to ever give a shit and take the effort to actually bother and see my face was _him_ and that was after that war finally forced you to pay some sort of real attention to me.” He started sobbing as he watched Arthur’s eyes go glassy too.

“Alfred...”

“And look…” He heaved, and then he heaved again, pointing frantically at all around the room, and then to himself, broken and shattered and crying. “Look at how fucking beautiful that turned out!”

Arthur let out a shuddering breath. “I did it to keep you safe… I thought that by keeping you away from me and out of other European affairs, you would be more safe. And I kept this from you too because… Well,” he gestured to him, trying to secure himself as the more upright and rational one, “look at you! Look at how upset you are now! You do not need this sort of distress –”

“I know I’m upset! I know I’m upset! I’m upset because you… you,” he croaked. “You lied to me!”

It didn’t matter what he lied about. What mattered was that this was _his_ politics and _his_ people they were talking about. This was what was going on in the outside world, far away from whatever limbo land Alfred had been lazing around in for years. This is what Alfred was leaning on him for. Other than France's notes of gossip that hardly held anything of use but the odd rebellious rumor, he relied entirely on Arthur to keep him informed, and to find out that he was twisting and turning these things behind his back - even for the sake of his own comfort - was extremely distressing.

He was never aware of how much of a… power dynamic existed between the two of them until now. And he was never expecting that Arthur would ever use it to keep things from him regarding his own politics. He didn’t know what to think or how to feel. “You lied to me…” He repeated again, quietly.

“Alfred,” Arthur tried. “This wasn’t my intention –”

“I feel like I don’t know if I can trust you again...”

“Maybe you shouldn’t,” a swift and broken whisper. “But… But you need to.”

“Why?” Alfred narrowed his eyes as he looked straight into those old emerald orbs. They had tears flowing from them now.

“Because I need you to,” he quivered sadly as his eyes locked with Alfred’s. He looked like he was deadly frightened of him, like he was a spirit – a ghost. Like everything he spoke was all he ever feared. “I was just trying to avoid bringing you the very distress you are feeling right now. I suppose,” he humorlessly chuckled to himself as he looked away. “I failed quite miserably at that. I’m sorry.”

Alfred crossed his arms to stifle the urge to comfort him. How miserable he looked. Alfred just wanted to cuddle him. But he was certain he would seize this argument. “This isn’t just personal, you know. It affects our politics too.” He let out a steady breath, the worst of his emotions leaving him. “I have to know this sort of stuff, Arthur. You can’t keep me ignorant like that.”

Arthur nodded, his head hung low. He too took a deep breath, visibly making his mind up. “How about… from now on I show you everything. You will not receive summaries anymore. Instead, I show you all of it, the raw data and all of my other notes too. All information that gets delivered to our doorstep; it will be yours as well. Would you like that?”

Alfred thought for a moment. That was a big offer he was giving him. But he shook his head. “That’s unfair. That includes all of your own domestic concerns with it too. I’ll feel like I’m intruding.”

“But I already read all of your domestic concerns.”

“Yeah, because I embody your colonies.” No, that was too much for Alfred. It was too rude to Arthur – to England. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Well, if you really want true representation and a good look at all the outside news and knowledge that we can get our hands on, then reading all of the mail I receive is the best I can give you.”

Alfred nearly laughed at how blunt he was. “Well, how about instead we sort everything out into two piles beforehand. One for you and one for me, and we both skim over everything to check.”

Arthur snorted as he spoke breathlessly. “You say you might never trust again and yet here you are, far too trusting.” His voice picked up in volume, “that makes for an easy loophole, Alfred. I could always just censor your affairs by placing them into my domestic pile without you looking and you would never know. That wouldn’t work.”

“Are you saying you can really be that sneaky?” Alfred nearly smiled.

“I am pretty good at theft.” Arthur said as he posed. “I was a privateer once, never dare to doubt me.”

The soft laugh they shared was tender and awkward, more of an icebreaker than an act of mutually shared humor.

But it worked, and the tenderness in Arthur’s eyes slowly returned. “You do realize that this whole affair means I will have to get more involved?”

“Yeah, I thought so.” Alfred sighed.

“I will not just sit around as this grows more and more tense if I can help it.”

“Yeah, I knew so.” Alfred smiled bittersweetly at Arthur’s shoes as he waited for the inevitable.

“We have to move up north again, with Missy and Matthew until we find a new place. It will be easier for us to deal with all this drama up there. It is where most of the action is happening, and we must follow it.”

Alfred nodded. So that was it. They were leaving Eden. They were leaving Eden for good. All it took for his safe little garden world to be uprooted was a burning ship and a short, explosive argument.

“I guess,” he started. “This was nice while it lasted.” He looked around their sweet, safe home of seven short years. It felt like an eternity had passed yet it was only a second. “I understand. We have to go back, it’s part of our duty to the people.” He then smiled at Arthur. “It’s how I want it to be.”

Arthur hummed thoughtfully, thankfully. “It will be easier for us to share information up there. New England is where all of the greatest international trading ports are. It will be good for us. I can give you more equal access for all the current affairs in the world. I’m sorry, Alfred. I really am. If you ask for anything else in the future, I will not hesitate to share all I know about it with you.”

Alfred smiled lightly. “Yeah…” He mumbled, “yeah, I would like that. And I’ll share the same with you, if you ask.”

So Arthur was actually listening to him. He was listening to him! And he was willing to give him what he wanted. He made an effort to make him happy. They made their own conclusion up on their own. They could compromise.

See, France? Alfred didn’t need to break away from him just because they would disagree over a couple of things. They made their own solutions together. They could find a way to fix their broken dynamics one step at a time without any violence to wedge between the two of them.

Alfred didn’t have to lose Arthur. In fact, as with each word they said, their bond strengthened, and he felt ever more closer in convincing Arthur to stand by his side, fighting fire with fire against their current administration.

“Let us hope these events do not escalate beyond re-nurturing. Otherwise, I fear I must return to the military and ensure I play my proper part as English personification, empirical power of this land.”

Alfred stood by him, clinging onto every word. That sounded dangerous. It did not sound like a safe option. And if he had to return to serve… would that split them up? “Where would I go in that circumstance?” He asked, irresolute.

“Oh, with me,” Arthur said quickly. “We must remain together. I will have you housed with Matthew no matter what, but neither of you will leave the quarters that I will return to at every day’s end.”

“All right, then.” A part of him had learned to trust Arthur again, and that was the face he freely allowed to front before him.

But another part of him still screamed out to keep his guard up. He was still frustrated, somewhere deep down inside. He kept it silent, but he knew exactly what it wanted. That little quarter of him wanted American matters to be something he could have a say in.

Leaving Eden would mean losing contact with the French serpent. He would no longer have access to any updates written on rebellious activities from a source outside of Arthur or the news, such as that pitiful scribe who hurriedly wrote to him about the Battle of Alamance before he himself knew of what it was.

Now that he thought about it, Alfred didn’t really mind losing contact with France that much. No note after Alamance ever matched the same courage to show him all the substance and details necessary to act out and take a stand anyway. Finding a new source of independent information was just another hurdle he would have to overcome for when he returned back to his house up north.

Back in his old New England home with Matthew and Missy… and David Williams, too, he assumed. Well, the crowd was certainly getting larger. He wondered how things would continue to play out with such a growing group of people all living under the same roof, all with different minds that stem from different worlds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Gaspee Affair, an event that happened on June 9th, was a significant event in the lead-up to the American Revolution. Wikipedia summarizes it better than me so here:  
>  **"The event increased tensions between the American colonists and British officials, following the Boston Massacre in 1770. British officials in Rhode Island wanted to increase their control over trade—legitimate trade as well as smuggling—in order to increase their revenue from the small colony. But Rhode Islanders increasingly protested the Stamp Act** [a part of the Grenville Acts of taxation, extensions of the Navigation Acts (placed over maritime trade)], **the Townshend Acts** [extensions made in retaliation of the retaliation for the Quartering Act (*phew*)], **and other British impositions that had clashed with the colony's history of rum manufacturing, maritime trade, and slave trading."**  
>  So therefore, they decided to burn down a boat.  
> Nobody died, but it was a pretty wild thing to do as a form of protest, hah. These old timers really did not mess around, did they?
> 
> Now, was Hannah (the packet ship Gaspee was chasing) actually illegally smuggling anything? Did she deserve to be chased like that? I don't know. Some research I've done explicitly states she WAS carrying illegal goods, but others state that was just British speculation and it was never proven. Other sources say she had nothing on her, but they were using her to deliberately lure Gaspee into shallow water and then attack her. Others then disagree with that conclusion, again. So I don't know. It comes down to the interpretation of history, in the end. What do you think?
> 
> Also, there were 38 newspapers circulating around Mainland British America in 1772. Papers in the Northeast, near where the event happened, were able to write about it within the first few weeks after the incident. However, for the news to travel more mid-south where North Carolina is, that would take a bit more time. I've characterized it to be about two months in time distance between the event happening and Al and Artie reading about it, enough for the news to travel, be written, published and then purchased. Also, pictures within newspapers DID exist back then but they were extremely rare and difficult to produce, so that paper Arthur splurged on would have been extremely expensive. But hey, to Arthur it was worth it for a good read, so I won't judge him.
> 
> "Drop dead, Arthur" comes from the canonical insult America hurled at him after hearing his taxes were gonna increase: "Drop dead, England!"  
> Back in that context, it was funny. Here, not so much...
> 
> Thanks again for reading, and happy 4th of July! :)


	19. The year was 1772

They were nearly there. Alfred couldn’t help smiling at the sight of familiar land before frowning again. All these nerves have brought up old blisters. His mouth was riddles with sores, and they stung like hell.

He knew it was the stress that was doing it. He could easily rationalize where all these feelings came from, put them into a box and tuck them away under some spare room bed. But the looming shadow of evil emotion just couldn’t let that be. Memories of the last time he had mouth ulcers were beginning to creep up from behind him yet again. It made him wary of how his body has changed.

It was different. He felt different after the years went by, after Alamance and the Gaspee affair. He felt more brittle inside, more soft, sore and tender. Prone to harm.

He shook his head. It hurt. He was hurting him so frequently these days, but at least he could keep himself calm. He had to be patient, to give time and let it heal. He remembered the kind words Arthur would whisper into his ear in times of trial and traumatic memory. They could always soothe him. He lived by those words.

But for now, he just had to get his mind off of it – that would be good enough for now. He looked around at all the scenery. Vast fields. Luscious greens. Swamp. He chuckled to himself as he looked down the legs of his horse, watching as the mushy mud flopped and formed from under his clopping hooves.

The two horses they had loaned for the ride were strong and sturdy stallions. They were kind enough to carry the weight of what little they had within their saddlebags with no complaints… Well, at least Arthur’s was.

Alfred’s had constantly been strolling astray the entire ride. He would lean, and tug, and cry out as the horse tried to brush him against a fence or a tree, but the beast refused to be any biddable boy. No, he would always try to waltz the other way. Like right now.

“How come your one is so disciplined and my one isn’t?” Alfred finally snapped as he tugged at the reins once more to put the horse in his place. Ouch! That one mouth sore there, it hurt like hell as he spoke! He rubbed it sourly as he pouted over Arthur’s laugh.

“Maybe because I used to ride cows back in the day, and they are far more jittery creatures than any horse could ever dream to be,” Arthur smirked.

Alfred gasped, shocked yet amused. “You rode on cows? Like you would a horse? Did that used to be normal?”

“No, it did not. I merely rode them for convenience, far back, back before. Far before the Renaissance. I am sure somewhere else in the world cow riding would be considered normal, but not for me, and surely not now. In Spain, maybe. The Germanies… That would not shock me.”

Alfred couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re strange…” He laughed again as an elated feeling overcame him. Along with a so familiar feeling of shock always topped with wonder. Arthur was so strange. It was why he loved talking to him. It felt like every time they spoke to each other, Alfred would discover something new and wonderful, strange yet amazing about him. It was as if the young empire existed to be his eternal adventure. His great and almighty Magna Arthur adventure.

“Excuse me? Strange? And that is a statement coming from you, of all people!” Arthur huffed at him, defensive. “They were everywhere back in those days, and I have owned many in my long life. Roaming from town to town to avoid strange looks and persecution every few decades left my legs tired, and I was such a young child. I decided to start using my cows as modes of transport.” He huffed again, “I thought it was a good idea at the time. It saved me so much energy, walking between villages so frequently.”

Alfred listened with intent interest until he noticed his horse stray once again. He groaned, threw his head back, grabbed the reins and set the horse back on track yet again. “Why so many cows? Why not buy yourself some horses?” Oh my God, his damn horse was trying to make him slip off!

Arthur quickly made his way up to him with expert ease, reaching out a hand and as Alfred took it, pulling him back to sit even on the rebellious horse’s back.

“Horses are expensive,” he continued with a proud smirk, guiding his horse back into a more distant formation, continuing on his merry way down the path. Alfred tsked, but couldn’t help admiring his skill. “All I would use one for is transportation, and I did not travel frequently enough to invest in one, and then another, then another, century after century... Cows, on the other hand – they were always there. They were money! They were always being traded. In fact, back then cattle and money were referred to by the same name… A noun.” His speech trailed off as he began muttering something.

Alfred grew impatient for the answer, “…and that was?” He prodded.

“Oh,” Arthur shook his head. “I will tell you if I can remember… I was just thinking… I miss having my cattle around me. They were far more than monetary assets to me. My only friends, it felt, at times.” Arthur looked out into the wind wistfully. “Yes, they were… dear friends of mine. All of them. The only decent company I had back then.” He turned to gaze at Alfred for a short second, something clearly on his mind, and something shining in his eyes. Alfred couldn’t for the life of him name what it was.

He shuffled on his saddle, feeling slightly strange. Somewhat fluttery. Arthur’s gaze had broken, yet he still felt himself blushing. He reached for his water canteen, wrapped around his neck, and took a large swig of some fresh cold drink. His eyes glanced over the little Bible bag wrapped around his horse’s neck. His dear text was sitting in there, its budging presence glaring at him through the fabric, judging him silently.

He sighed. He’d been loose in his efforts lately. He had to ensure he wouldn’t reveal his lust to any more people, especially the very culprit behind his holy crime. He had committed himself to that, at least. But at times, it felt like a drug. And it was so hard to fight the feelings of a drug he had never felt before.

He supposed he had that in common with his people. They had never been exposed to this sort of governmental control either – the reason they were making this trip in the first place. For as long as he could remember, he took care of himself, and his people took care of themselves too. Now all of a sudden they were all dealing with all these new rules and regulations and restrictions and he’d never seen anything to the likes of it before.

He knew he needed to talk to Arthur about it. He had to get it off his chest… The nights they would rest during their journey, it would be the thing nagging him to speak up about every time he meditated. Every time he closed his eyes before bed. Every time he felt Arthur’s arms wrap around him and hug him good night. He felt like he didn’t do it properly before, back right before they left, especially after that explosive argument. No, he didn’t. Ne didn’t speak of it properly, and he hadn’t since.

But he knew he needed to. And here was the place to do it. He was calm, things were calm. They were in good moods. He had to be honest and tell it as he felt it. He told himself he would fight for them, so here he went. He took one deep breath in. And one deep breath out.

“Arthur,” he began. “For years…” Oh God, this felt awkward already. “For years I was left along… I mean _alone_. I’ve been alone for many years. The people who live out here, they made it on their own, like I did. They built an identity and they made themselves a voice.” Oh boy, so here it comes. Arthur was listening, looking at him. His kind eyes yet curious eyes gave him the strength to continue. “Now, thought, all that seems to be suddenly gone, and m… the people don’t like it. It is um, a shock to the system – my system, too! And I know that to be true, at least.”

“Alfred,” a firm and steady voice. “I am aware of the policies that have dominated my governance for years. These recent changes have been formed by a parliament without me…” He sounded so defensive, yet his expressions softened up. “I know this is something I must address…”

“No, Arthur,” Alfred tried again. “I need you to understand this. Please listen. I…” He took another deep breath. “I felt Boston. I felt Alamance. I…” His voice weakened, “I saw a man get shot there, Arthur. You know that. And this… this is a real problem. For… for them and for me.” His throat began to burn and hick and crackle as the words stumbled out. Was it his nerves or was it his youth, doing that to his voice? He couldn’t tell.

“You one said we were guardian angels for the people, right? So here I am, trying to be theirs.” He took one more breath, determined to finish. “People have died, families have suffered, livelihoods have been rocked. I can feel these people going through great pain… because they feel like they are not being heard.”

Arthur remained quiet, and the silence let Alfred continue.

“They want that neglect to return. That neglect policy from parliament, the policy that I have lived with for the entire time I have known you. They want that back, the old times where people were left alone to do their own thing. They want that back instead of this current… sort of overruling.”

“I wouldn’t exactly call it overruling –”

“I know, I know! I know… Down south, it has calmed a bit, I know, and it looks that way to you. But the more north we go – this is where all of the trade is, and therefore – where all of the restrictions are increasing; it is worsening up here! The people have never –” he made an ‘x’ with his arms in emphasis – “ever known ruling like this before now. Give them their context when it is due; they have never known control like this before. So,” he held his hands up, out to Arthur, awkward and innocent in his presentation, “this feels like overruling...”

Arthur watched him from inside the gap Alfred left between his arms, his intense eyes blazing as he sat there, riding and thinking for a moment in silence. “I suppose it may feel like that,” he finally agreed with a bow of the head, and Alfred dropped his arms only to shoot them up again to the heavens in holy celebration. “Given the current corruption epidemic that seems to be plaguing this land, I am not surprised you think that way. But we are in the northern provinces, now. Access to greater information while up here will surely work to our newfound advantage.” His serious expression broke as he smiled for his own self-affirmation.

“I can reach out to associates I have while we are here; I can demand the removal of any overbearing officers for you, if they bring you any dismay. The pay off, however, will be our frequent change in housing. We moved down south for a reason – to stay safe from the Crown’s eye while maintaining a permanent residence. I hope you realize we will no longer have such a luxury up here.”

Alfred nodded, holding his head up high as he finally managed to guide his horse better. He knew that last part already. “I understand.”

“That is all I have for now,” Arthur said with studious composure after a short silence, “the greatest solution I can manifest on the spot...”

“That’s the plan,” Alfred hummed in agreement. He was ecstatic with how things were going. He was excited he was getting his way… But something was nagging him. A little voice. A sad voice who missed his brother. Matthew… The thought of living so close to him, yet not living with him was beginning to hurt his heart. It hurt more than his awful sores could ever dare dream.

At least Arthur was listening to him. He was making an effort to help change things around town. That was good! And maybe one day, when another kind of man sits on the throne, and a new crown is made, they could come out of hiding and be with Matthew freely.

At least this talk was great for his cause… and… fluttery for his stomach. A strange feeling had overcome him after hearing Arthur’s words. He didn’t know exactly what it was, but it reminded him of how butterflies looked, dazzling and spiralling, or how a bird’s song sounded, twirling around in the wind, or even how the feel of a lovely lake’s fresh water felt around his ankles, warm and welcoming with its beckoning hug.

It was giddy, yet calming at the same time. It filled him up the entire day, until he finally noticed a well-known house out in the far distance. And then that giddy feeling suddenly burst into fully fledged assertive joy.

“Home!” Alfred cried out as he got his horse to pick up the pace, turning his head back and motioning Arthur to hurry up too. “It’s our old home!”

They made their way to the stable swiftly, opening it wide with a grand entrance. Alfred squealed like a little boy as he hopped off his horse and tied him tight to one of the poles, “good day, dear Peggy! It is so good to see you happy and healthy!”

He made his way up to greet her, who couldn’t care less about his entrance – too focused on the bocking chickens prancing and playing around her.

“Oh! Who are these ladies!” He giggled as Arthur caught up to him. “We have some new additions in the family! I wonder when you ladies were brought in here…” He sat down as they began inspecting him and standing all over him.

“Aww… they like me!”

“I think they are just searching for more food.” Arthur laughed at him, amused by the chicken-coated sight sitting down beside him. “So I have bonded with cows… It is nice to see you have bonded with chickens. See, you are just as strange as I am.”

“Hey! They’re not just any measly chickens, they’re Pilgrim Fowl! They’re beautiful and –” he gasped as he heard a tiny little noise, and his head whipped around to spot out a little ball of black fluff toddle across the new and shiny tiny barn built right into the stable. “Ahhh!” He could have cried. “Arthur, it’s a baby!”

He leaned his head back to share his excitement with Arthur before one of the bastard chickens started pecking at his blond hair and his scalp. “Ouch!”

Arthur chuckled. “I like that one,” he smirked as he pointed at Alfred’s attacker.

“Hey! That’s not fair! That’s really –”

Matthew was in the doorway. His mouth was wide open as he stood there, stunned as Alfred matched his expression. Shocked out of his mind, he dropped the massive bag of horse feed he had in his hands, far too heavy for a human his size to ever carry it, and all the contents spilled and sprayed out, right into Peggy’s pen, much to her whiny delight.

Only then did Arthur turn around, and his eyes grew wide too as he spotted dear little Matthew, who had not aged a day since the last time they saw him.

The chickens clucked cheerily as they fluttered towards Matthew, Alfred following quickly from behind, and the two boys raced to hug each other – with the addition of Arthur as well.

“I had no idea you were coming! I’m so sorry, I should have prepared!”

“No, no. You couldn’t have expected us,” Alfred reassured him after they had enough of squeezing each other to death. “I’m just happy to see you.”

“I am glad you are well,” Arthur concurred. “But it seems you have renovated my stable without asking.”

“Oh… I’m so sorry. I just really felt like Peggy was getting lonely without any animal companions so Davie suggested we get chickens, and then we got chickens and nowhere to put them so we put them in here in a pen in the barn and you’re here now and…” Matthew smiled brightly. “You’re home again! Welcome home! Oh, you have to meet Davie, come on!”

He dragged them out, and once he sealed the stable-barn tight, he pulled them straight up to the front door, polite yet demanding in his tone as he called out for Missy and David to come out from inside the house.

Missy made her way there first, coming out and standing by the doorway, wearing her headscarf as always. Alfred had to take a few breaths; it was all moving so fast. And seemingly so exactly similar to how it was back in ’65… But at the same time, the whole thing felt so much more different in tone.

They greeted each other, and Missy gave him a benevolent but still strangely suspicious stare. She raised an eyebrow, gave him a good look, up and down, and cockily asked, “good day Alfred. Do you mind telling me how old you are?”

Matthew immediately stood between them, flustered. “H-how… long are you staying with us for?” He asked with a frightening smile.

“For as long as it will take to find another rural place to stay around here, and that may take weeks.” Arthur paused, pondering for a moment, almost hopeful. “How long has it been since any soldier has approached this door, looking for us?”

“Oh, it’s been years.” Matthew said easily. “The last time a man came down here to see you he got really angry. He shouted out that it’s a given that you’re never here, and so they don’t even try asking us anymore.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Missy said as an eccentric hunger flared up in her eyes; an intense desire to share the knowledge she knew. “The man who got angry, he’s one of the men in charge around here. He would’ve had significant influence in the final decision to finally leave us alone. They never show they faces around here anymore, or ever again.”

Arthur nodded, muttering something in grateful approval. “Well, we can stay here for a lifetime, then.”

“Huh?” Alfred’s heart fluttered, his mind promising him irrational things.

“We’re staying here permanently, Alfred.”

“Are we?” He blinked, processing the information for a moment. Arthur nodded, conforming his slow-moving suspicions. “We are!” He cheered, jumping in sync with a joyful Mattie.

“That’s good.” A new voice from behind Missy suddenly sounded. “I have been waiting to befriend whom I am tenant to.”

Alfred stopped bouncing when he noticed the tall man standing beside Missy. He reached out a hand, and Alfred took it to shake it, staring at it dumbly as he noticed how rough and exhausted it felt against his own. It was shocking, so stark and overworked compared to the man’s tranquil expression.

He held himself straight and upright, dignified yet gentle. He had soft, cool blue undertones in his skin, blending in beautiful harmony with Missy's bold dark bronze as she interlinked her arm with his own. His face was square, his smile kind and hopeful, and his eyes shimmered lustrously in the sunlight. It was as if those eyes held the wonders of the twinkling night sky within them. From one simple look, Alfred could tell this man was a visionary.

He looked down at his feet, holding his hands tightly together behind his back as he heard himself stammer. He could also tell that Matthew was right – very _very_ right. He blushed brightly as he struggled to look up and smile in any sort of civil greeting he could muster.

“It is a pleasure to meet you. I am David Williams; however I believe you are aware that most call me ‘Davie’ around here.”

“Alfred Jones.” He replied swiftly, unsure of what else to say. How else to carry the conversation. “So... I hear you’re a carpenter, huh?”

“Yes, I’m quite honored to hold the same profession the Lord once did.”

Alfred's smile slowly felt more natural. “You’re a Christian?”

“Yes,” David nodded happily before Arthur got his attention. They introduced themselves to each other as Alfred watched them intently, their gestures, their handshake. Their friendly relations. The loving look in Missy’s eyes. Alfred decided he liked this David Williams very much. He shared a smile with Matthew, who beamed as if he was introducing them to his loving father.

Their conversation flowed well; their introductions were smooth. It took them a while to get inside, but when they did, they made themselves at home right away. They sat in the main room, wondering how to catch up with each other’s lives.

It was Missy who suggested a game. A little event where the two groups sit across from each other. One group would ask the other a single question, and the group with the ask would then share any news about it, and then they would swap who asked for the next question, and it flowed on from there.

“Is there anything we are not allowed to speak about?” Matthew asked before they began, and his response was a unanimous ‘no’ before Missy began by directing everyone to the first topic.

“How about I start things off?” She smiled brightly, like she was glowing with pride. “I’m with child.”

Arthur was the most shocked, almost alarmed. “Out of wedlock? Have you been hurt in any way?”

David chuckled. “No, no. We’re married. We have only recently found out about the good news… And, it is your turn now.” He pointed with accusing humor, “tell us who you two personify.”

Alfred and Arthur immediately made eye contact with each other, eyes wide and horrified.

“Well that ain’t something you hear every day,” Missy hummed expectantly from the background.

“Oh, we know about it,” David chuckled again. “Canada told us about it a short while ago, all the way back to when I first moved in here.”

Alfred gasped as Arthur hissed, “Matthew!”

The boy cowered behind his adoptive parents. “I’m sorry! They noticed that I never aged, and they started questioning –”

“And your eyes too, boy.” Missy chimed in, getting up close to his face and pointing at them to elaborate. “Ain’t no human having violet eyes, as far as I’ve seen.”

Matthew pushed her hand away before turning back to the two boys. “Well, anyway,” he sighed, exhausted. “They coaxed it out of me! You get the picture…”

Arthur’s shock horror slowly cracked, and eventually his tired expression took over as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Oh, never mind.” He whispered to Alfred, putting a hand on his shoulder to calm him down. “It saves us from dealing with their shock if they ever found out.”

Alfred blinked, shuffling uncomfortably as his eyes locked to the ground. He shook his hands, flicking away the nerves before he tried to recover and sit up straight. “Congratulations on your baby,” he said in a small voice, trying to be happy for them.

“You know Canada." Arthur pointed at him. "Well this here is Thirteen. He personifies a collection of Thirteen of my colonies here in America, while I am the Kingdom of England.” He said so professionally, and without any malice. What’s done is done in his eyes. It made Alfred feel far more secure, like everything would be all right. These people wouldn’t want to hurt them. It would be all right. “We guard the many souls of a nation – we are their angels, their guardians. We embody their emotions. We are their spirit. That is who we are.”

Alfred smiled. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to have a few human allies by their side. He ran his tongue over an old sore in his mouth. It been hurting for ages, but now it felt small and insignificant. He felt more secure, more happy. Taking his chances with his confidence, he leaned forward to be the one to ask the next question.

“So how did you get married?”

Missy glowed once again with a bright sunshine smile. “We have been technically married for about two weeks.”

“Oh! So it’s recent!” Alfred’s slowly rebuilding smile just nearly matched her for energy.

“Yes, ahh, a man and a woman who cohabitate with each other for as long as we have now are automatically considered married by common law.”

Alfred blinked a few times. He did not know that.

“I am glad you are here in person. It is much more pleasant to discuss these sorts of matters face to face rather than over a letter,” David said as he reached out to hold her hand, and she took it.

“Yeah, it was such a pleasant surprise to see you here.” Mattie added. “I was right in the middle of drafting my letter to tell you guys about it!”

“Wait,” Alfred scrunched his face up to keep himself from laughing at him. “You draft your letters?”

“Yeah... Don’t you?”

“No. I just... write.”

Matthew then turned to Arthur. “You draft them too, right?”

Arthur shook his head, concerned. “I draft formal letters if they are going to be sent up to important political figures. However, if it is just us talking… then I write as I think.”

David interrupted them with a chuckle. “I believe that would have counted as two questions from you, Alfred.”

Alfred crossed his arms all huffily and pouty. “He asked a question back,” he spat back defiantly, throwing a pillow at Mattie with a playful glimmer in his eyes. Yes, he really did like this Mr Williams man.

Missy continued with the conversation. “I have caught Matthew carrying a few things he shouldn’t be able to for a child of his size. Peggy, for instance. Is that usual for your kind? If so, then how does it work?”

“Oh yes, I remember,” David chuckled as he leaned back into his seat. “That gave me such a fright.”

Arthur made an undignified sound of shock as he glared at Matthew expectantly. “Explain.”

“This was after they found out about us! I didn’t do anything wrong. She was hurt, and I panicked. I didn’t know how to handle it outside, so I carried her back to the stables to clean her up.” He bowed his head in self-assertion, determined to defend the remnants of his honor already strained by his stumbling secret-sharing. “She’s all fine and healthy now, if you were wondering.”

“That’s good,” Alfred said, positive memories of Peggy filling his head. He was glad she was safe. But he couldn’t help but be amused by Mattie’s brash actions. It sounded like something he himself would do for any animal, too.

Arthur, on the other hand, seemed very unimpressed. He turned to Missy to answer her question. “Nations typically embody the spirit of a very large group of people. Transmitted physically, it would only make sense if we had some sort of supernatural strength to accompany that fact.”

Missy seemed interested, but then she looked somewhat confused, then saddened. She treated her next words with great care. “But you said your king gone and done treated you real bad?”

The room was silent. Heavy memories set in. So many years ago, so many other horrible things he had seen and felt since, yet those memories were still working hard to fill him with so much dread. Alfred felt Arthur rub his shoulder, strong and soothing, and only then had he realize he’d been biting his lower lip. He released it before quietly replying, “yes.”

She didn’t elaborate, didn’t ask for any greater clarification. She sensed the sorrow it seemed to have caused, and she chose to stop with deep regret in her eyes. It brought Alfred great shame to see her look at him like that.

Arthur was the one to break the silence, holding onto Alfred tightly. “Yes, it is a shame that when we are up against our bosses, we retain only the strength our bodies should have if we were mere mortal humans.” He sighed, and Alfred sighed along with him, together. It was a way for their old memories to escape – to leave their bodies. It wasn’t for good; it would never be for good. But it would be for a long enough while to survive and thrive.

“Besides, it is our duty to obey the bosses we are given,” Arthur whispered from beside him, so quiet and so deadly in its tone that Alfred was sure it was only for himself to hear. He reached out for Arthur’s hand and squeezed it tight.

“You don’t have to feel that way,” he whispered back, and Arthur looked at him, eyes wide and soul rocked to the core. As if he didn’t expect Alfred to hear him, and now he didn’t know how to respond.

Arthur shook his head, quickly trying to change the subject around. “So, have you given yourself any kind of ceremony for your marriage?” He tried asking.

“Yes!” Missy answered joyfully, her arms dancing along with her good news, brightening the mood of the whole room with her entertaining energy. “Personally, we wanted a marriage sanctified by the Lord. So we did a tiny little religious ritual; a sort of marriage sanctification with a minister who was kind enough to wed us. The man had been familiar with Davie’s family, so that’s how we found him!”

David nodded, conforming the things she said with humble articulation.

“So, we said our vows,” Missy continued with her theater performance of words and dance. “In my opinion, I say that's enough to make it the real deal for me.”

“We signed a book, too.” David mentioned, glancing at her with a small smile that would outshine the greatest stars of the night sky.

“Ahh, we did sign a book!” Missy clapped cheerfully, laughing along with the memory before getting back on track. “So, we signed a book. We declared ourselves married. However, the minister did warn us that such a claim can be… tenuous due to the constant shifting of legality here and there whenever it comes to the Negro marriage.” Missy sighed, looking slightly disappointed, but also undeniably bright and opportunistic. “At least, if the authorities – for some silly reason – chose not to recognize our marriage, then I will be exempt from all the disabilities enforced upon a lady by them coverture laws,” she said smugly.

“Coverture?” Alfred asked, confused. He’d never heard of that before.

“A women’s assets all belong to her man – her husband, and if unmarried, then her father.” Missy said with a haughty chuckle. “So on top of Davie getting his own wages, he would get mine as well. However, given the fact our marriage is religious over legal could mean I am exempt from these laws. How good does that sound?”

“Oh.” Alfred frowned. That whole process sounded unfair to him. “That sounds… great.”

Arthur laughed before rubbing his hand on Alfred’s shoulder, successfully getting his attention. “I’m going to put our things in our room.” He announced.

“Do you want me to help you?” Matthew stood to aide him, but Arthur had left already. “You’ve had a long trip!” He shouted out down the hallway, unsure .

“I can manage, thank you.” Was all that could be heard from the distance.

Alfred chuckled for a little before turning back to David. “So where do you work?”

“Oh. Here and there, with whoever is willing to do business with me. I am a very, very lucky Black man – I have a reputation I can sell from.”

“Is that so?”

David punched the palm of his hand with a soft and slow-moving fist, cracking his knuckles along the way. “I come from a big, beautiful family of strong and sturdy carpenters.” He said proudly.

Matthew chimed in with great excitement. “They’re really well known for their good character around here. In fact, those connections are how you met that priest kind enough to marry you, isn’t that right, Davie?”

David nodded. “My family and I have always been very prominent in our fight for justice.”

“Wow!” Alfred exclaimed. “Does your family name carry weight in this community?"

"Yes," David said proudly.

"No," Missy chuckled, interrupting. "They ain’t powerful in the way that you're thinking. They are well-known for being a kind and Christian family, yes. Damn right they should be. But famous when it comes to weight in politics? No. They are simply one of the many Negro surnames in the fight for our civil liberties. If a family is free, then we use our voice. We are not a docile people."

David hummed in affirmation. “I believe that to be true. Most of us are very vocal. The amount of voices within the Negro community choosing to speak up is countless.” He sighed, tired. “Let up hope the white man will listen before blood spills.”

Alfred felt his heart pound in his chest. This knowledge was enticing. Exciting. He had felt some of this in his many meditations, but it was always, always on another level, always completely something else to see or hear in person. He leaned forward in his chair, his smile shone with joy and hope and elation. “How do you make people hear you?” He asked, enticed by the idea, of some possible society far in the future somehow being possible.

David’s voice spoke in perfect mix, clearly proud of his achievements yet still humble in his boasting. “We rally petitions, day and night. We send them to legislators and the commanders of local governments demanding Black emancipation. Day and night we work with peace, through education we improve articulation. We have slaves demanding their own personal freedom and that for their families through the letters they have learned to write by our efforts. This is the power of the free Black voice. This is the sound we must make if we are to truly call ourselves brothers and sisters.”

Alfred stared at him in awe, so mesmerized by the power of his speech, so saddened by how little the power of those who wanted to hear it most. “You’re really active in politics.” He stated the obvious, watching Missy as she beamed with pride for her husband’s endeavors. His eyes darted as he wondered, deep in thought as he tried to connect the dots. “Is that why you were moving around so frequently before finally settling down here to stay?”

David leaned back as he thought for a second. “Mhh… yes and no, I would say. You will often find men like me strolling alongside the edges of town for safety reasons. Violent attacks are unending. They are always a threat, and ultimately that makes the efforts to find a new place to call home extremely difficult.” He reached out his hands, one holding onto Missy, the other reaching out for Matthew, who took it and held it firm.

“I must express how blessed I am to find a family here,” he said, every word with great emotion. “Here, where it is safe. Where I can relax…” He sighed before smiling more broadly, defiantly. “However, make no mistake about it. I am just as fanatic for emancipation as my dear wife! She simply… is inclined to engage in more… devious and divisive actions than I am,” he laughed after she slapped his wrist.

“Oh, you better done change your tune before you find yourself banned from this household.” Missy threatened, trying to keep her husband hushed. But the mischievous tone in her voice was evident.

“How are you more devious?” Alfred asked.

She rolled her eyes with a smirk. “My job. I assume some may call it ‘top secret’ while I like to call it work from within the shadows...” She puts a finger to her lips to hush herself, chuckling lightly.

“Top secret?” Alfred tilted his head, more confused than satisfied.

David was the one to roll his eyes next, his sappy smile shimmering softly as he damn near whispered. “She’s an information dispatcher... and sometimes she smuggles one or two weapons around town…”

Alfred gasped, suddenly enticed by a strong sense of adventure. He had no idea part of what she did would sound so illegal. He figured there was no harm in asking for more details. “For who, though?”

Matthew frowned a cute little frown before shaking his head and crossing his arms. “She never tells me, so you don’t get to know!” He kicked his legs out and sighed a sheepish sigh. “I’m always guessing. I guess all the time. It’s become a game between us, like the one we’re playing now.”

He looked like he was going to say more, maybe even turn their ‘game’ into a guessing one. But Arthur entered the room, looking tired and sniffly.

“I’ve finished bringing everything in,” he mentioned before nearly sneezing his head off. “Bloody hell! That spare bed was dusty.”

Missy made a grunting noise as she crossed her arms and shot an unamused, accusing look at Matthew.

He squawked, making himself look small, tiny and victimized. “I forgot to! I forgot to! I didn’t mean to deliberately leave it…”

Arthur chuckled, realizing where this was going. “It is all right Matthew, I assure you. I have already cleaned it up myself.” He then turned to Missy. “That reminds me. How will the baby be delivered? Would you like to have a bed or should we carve out a…”

“A birthing chair?” Missy requested quickly, hopefully. “I think that sounds the most comfortable for me.”

David sat up at the proposition. “That would certainly put me to use.” He chuckled.

Arthur grinned at that. “Do you have any women who could help you deliver the child?”

Missy shook her head, looking wounded. “There are no other women who work in my field and live locally.”

“Could we possibly get any women from in town to help us?”

“We ain’t near any Black neighborhoods to ask that sort of question!”

"We aren’t near any neighborhoods, period.” Matthew protested with a saddened sigh. “It’s a whole trip just to make it to the markets…"

“Hey,” Alfred said, interjecting smoothly. “It’ll be all right. I… Umm, I used to be really good friends with a midwife! She taught me some stuff. Maybe I could help?”

Arthur suddenly went red as he furrowed his brows, confused and outraged. “Who was that? Childbirth is the domain of a woman! Was she qualified?”

“One of the best women I’ve ever known!” Alfred rebuked before turning to Missy. “She said that you should intervene as little as possible, and let labor go about its natural course. If something goes wrong, however, then I should be able to help a little based on the things she said to me. Would you like me to help you?”

Missy nodded, sounding grateful as she sighed, “oh, I would accept any help at this point. Knowing it will be from you is an added blessing I can trust.”

Alfred nodded as Matthew cooed. Arthur struggled to follow the conversation, standing all blushed up and flustered.

“Then it is settled then,” David announced with great humor. “We have our midwife!”

Alfred’s eyebrows raised at that as he stammered and shook his palms out wildly. “Oh! I’m not a midwife! I’ll be relying on all of your help on the day –”

“No, seriously. Who was this woman you knew?”

“– But the one most important thing Anne ever told me was that you have to rely upon the help of the new mother the most.” He smiled sweetly at Missy. “It will be about you and the baby, first and foremost.”

“Let’s hope it’s a safe delivery then,” Mattie sounded softly.

“Let’s hope!” Alfred, David, and Missy all replied with abundant joy and high volume while Arthur continued his blabbering about Alfred’s sudden midwifery skills. Eventually, though, he caved in too and sighed, smiling subtly.

“Let’s,” he said, his good will only just managing to triumph over his traditionalist embarrassment, evident by the heavy rouge on his cheeks.

And Alfred couldn’t help but laugh at his silly old Magna Arthur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And after a long wait, it is finally out! Woohoo!
> 
> Historical Notes:  
> \- The word for 'cattle' and 'money' is the exact same in Old English: "feoh"!! In fact, this is the mother term who evolved into the modern word "fee"... isn't that cool!!
> 
> \- The British governmental policy over the American colonies was called "salutary neglect" from practically the beginning of Virginia all the way up to the end of the Seven Years/French and Indian War [same war]. Given that context, it is no wonder why the people of the colonies reacted so negatively to sudden "overruling" as Alfred put it, especially if they were given no governmental representation in compensation for this new overseeing-type style of rule.
> 
> \- Coverture:  
> Women have been trampled on for centuries through coverture, a legal doctrine that makes every single legal right and obligation (including wages, medication, location of practice/residence, property ownership) of a woman subsumed by those of her husband. In a modern context, the quickest way to state it would be a woman would become her husband's legal property.  
> Given that marriages for people of color were so roughly documented in this time, and that most marriages were easily overturned by courts wanting to separate slave couples for the sake of greater profits, poc marriages were often disregarded as the law was so sloppily rewritten for them again and again. In the end, it would make poc women practically immune to coverture if she were a freewoman. However if she were a slave, that would be another story, making her completely prone to possible forced separation from her and her 'illegitimate' family.  
> Overall, the whole situation was nothing but ghastly degradation for human dignity and should never be repeated nor forgotten.  
> If you would like to read more, this is an interesting article from the [Oxford Research Encyclopedia. ](https://oxfordre.com/americanhistory/view/10.1093/acrefore/9780199329175.001.0001/acrefore-9780199329175-e-12#acrefore-9780199329175-e-12-div1-3)
> 
> \- By the 1770s, people of color [both free and enslaved] from across all of New England worked en masse for Black emancipation. These movements were **not** docile. Some of these movements were aggressive, while others tried to use the art of conversation. Either way, both of these movements were **assertive** in their efforts for abolition, some were met with convinced minds, most were met with great hostility, but neither movements should be forgotten in history. Especially given the fact that most people only remember the Civil War and its end results, meanwhile the fight for freedom has far more history behind it - and far more **Black history** \- than that.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter, it took me a bit of time to finally sit down and write, so I hope the writer's block was worth it!
> 
>  **Thank you so much for reading, and comments are greatly appreciated!**  
>  See you next chapter!


	20. The year was 1773

The Magna Arthur was an impressive document. It hung with its grand frame in all its might and glory, right in the middle of the largest wall of the house. The words on it curled and swirled; such claims were bold and never paltry. It was difficult to miss as one would pass by it. But, for all the years Alfred was forced away from it, he found that almost every day he missed it more and more.

He ran his fingers over the base of his precious charter as the memories brought him blurry vision. He wondered how he could uphold it – honor it. To share such values with his people. To honor Arthur and his ideals. And to keep pushing forward for a perfect world.

He heard the sound of someone clearing their throat from behind him, and he whipped his head around to see David standing there, smiling softly with some writing equipment in his hands and an expectant look in his eyes.

“Do you mind helping me?” He asked. “I am so close to completion now. I need some final assistance from the midwife’s friend.”

The midwife’s friend, huh? Alfred rolled his eyes. He’d been called that enough over the past few months to no longer glow red and grow all flustered as soon as he heard it.

“Sure,” he said as he let David walk him around the corner and into his woodwork room.

He spun around as he looked at everything in the busy room. Most unfinished things were covered in cloth, and his completed creations were all coated in pleasant paints. Everything seemed messy yet all things had their own special place. A few rays of light shone in from the partially closed curtain. For some reason it made the place look cleaner than it was. It was peaceful in here. Calming, cool and considerate. Much like David himself.

He watched as David paced before him, grabbing the blanket over his largest centerpiece contraction and unveiling it like an illusionist.

“Here we go,” he sung as he gestured, all proud and nervous as he revealed the special chair he had been slaving over all day and night for the past few weeks. Its lovely colored fabrics were sewn over the seat and on the back, heavily cushioned and comfortable looking. The arms were arched, regal, and were made out of a well smoothed-out rich brown wood. It looked fantastic; the man truly pored his heart and soul into his work for his wife.

Alfred was about to compliment it before David spoke sincerely. “So, how do you think I could improve.”

Alfred scrunched up his face, confused. “Don’t you think Missy should be the one who has the last say in this?”

“Oh, she will. I would like to ask you to be the first test, however.”

Alfred smirked. “To see if it’s up to a midwife’s standards?”

David tilted his head to the side, pouting mischievously. “That… Or if it breaks on us, then you will be the one who takes the blow –” Alfred gave him a sharpened glare – “…and not her.”

Ahh. So his playful tease was benign. It seemed Alfred’s wolf in sheep’s clothing was really just his wife’s guardian angel. How kind of him.

“You want me to be your test subject?” Alfred tapped his temple twice with a couple of fingers, giggling. “Sneaky,” he whispered as he hopped onto the chair, shooting a bemused yet accusing glare at David.

He shifted around to get comfortable, making sure he didn’t fall down. It felt strange to sit down on a seat with a big hole in the middle of it, but at the same time it was something fun and new and exciting.

He put his feat up onto the custom-made pedals David would excitedly describe his progress on every night at supper. They provided good grip, and an added comfort Missy craved. And they fit him just like a specially tailored pair of gloves. He giggled again as he looked up at David standing there, and smiled at him broadly.

“Hah! It fits perfect for me too. Missy and I must have the same leg size.” He chuckled as he reclined, getting comfortable, letting his forearms leaning on the lovely made armrests. “I think this works really well! You did a great job. I think that – Ouch!” Alfred suddenly sat right up as he felt something sharp and prickly on his arms.

He shifted uncomfortably, uncertain, as he used his shaking fingers to feel over the wooden armrest. It was strange. It felt nice and smooth now. Why the hell did it feel so spiky all of a sudden?

“Are you all right?”

Alfred looked up to notice David looking down, sorry and concerned. He took a deep breath, trying to reassure him he was all fine. “Yeah… Just that.” He stumbled, “that one corner there is rough…” He narrowed his eyes, feeling confused and slightly frightened. His body felt tense, but he couldn’t pinpoint why or where this sudden cold chill came from. He shook his head to shake away the frosty feeling, letting his arms rest in his lap instead.

“Is it?” David took a mental note as he ran a hand over one of the arms. “I will have to smooth it out some more, then.” He made a mark on the chair before adding in a soft and soothing voice, “thank you for that.”

Alfred took in a little breath of air, David’s calming presence soothing here. He would make a good father. “That’s all good.” He replied quickly as he absentmindedly played around with the pedals using his feet.

“Do you know… It is nice to have some company again while making these sorts of things. Back in Maryland I would always ask my sisters to help me if I required any proportions of a person while making my creations.”

Alfred perked up after hearing that. “Maryland? Is that where you’re from?”

“Yes, my family and I. Before we all dispersed and went our separate ways… I miss them very much.”

“Oh…” Alfred blinked. “Why did you leave each other then?” He clenched his jaw fast, like a fool, biting his tongue in the process. David once spoke of the violence subjected to him in his past, how could he forget that? He had no idea how bad it was; it could be a sensitive subject for all he knew.

Nonetheless, all David did was shrug nonchalantly. “I think it was for a plethora of reasons. We were all so unique and different,” he smiled, his eyes glistening as he watched his old memories. “A very mix-matched bunch. I think we were all born to see different parts of the world, so the Lord sent us out in our own directions.” He tilted his head to the side, pursing his lips. “I believe the catalyst for our leaving would have to be the brutality of our hometown, however.” He sighed. “We were always prone to frequent attacks from ugly-hearted outsiders. We simply had enough after some time. We decided to stand up for our livelihoods, and so we packed our bags and then we separated, all in search for someplace better.”

Alfred watched him intently, rubbing his jaw as he wondered how had it must have been to say goodbye. “Is this your someplace better?”

David paused for a mere moment. Then he grinned handsomely, his smile brighter than the moonlight. He opened his mouth to respond before spotting Arthur at the door with a cup of tea in his hand.

“Good day to you,” he said after taking another sip. “Do you mind if I come in?”

“Certainly,” David responded, gesturing to his chair as a servant would suggest a seat. “It’s almost complete. We’re just doing a safety test now.”

As Arthur made his way into the room, Alfred began to squawk and squirm like a little giddy baby. All giggly as he stood up, he forgot his feet were still on the pedals, and one foot caught itself, twisting him over as he tripped and hit the ground. Or nearly did, because instead of his butt falling straight onto the floor, he felt a strong and sturdy arm wrapped around his ass, propping him up and saving him from his fall of doom.

His face flushed as he felt sparks and tingles and flutters all over the skin, noticing that the man attached to the arm that saved him was none other than a rather unimpressed looking English lad. And his hand… it wasn’t on his waist or his hips like it usually was during their play fighting. No, he was cradling him. And holding him up by the ass. Alfred was stunned, dumbstruck. He couldn’t move. He didn’t know what to say.

He ended up blurting out something stupid, anyway. “Ohh… you, umm. You almost spilled your tea,” he said, pointing to the cup that was tilted so much it looked like it was about to cry.

Arthur turned to look behind him, where he had his other arm outstretched, holding onto his tea. “Oh,” he said with ease, straightening Alfred out and letting him go before tilting the cup back into his lips and taking another sip. Alfred just stood stunned and speechless as he watched Arthur saunter on.

“Have you shown it to Mrs Williams yet?” He asked effortlessly, gesturing at the chair as he directed his question at David, who had turned his back to them in search for some wood smoothing tools on his table. “I assure you she will love how it looks as of now,” Arthur smiled as he walked around the chair, now empty and open to his view. He seemed thoroughly impressed. Unless that glimmer in his eye meant something else.

“No, she hasn’t seen it yet,” David replied with a hearty chuckle. “She still refuses to speak with me.”

“Oh!” Alfred nearly jumped out of his skin, back to full attention. Had they been fighting with each other? That was very unlike them. “Why?”

David made a small sound of satisfaction, smirking as he spun around suddenly and held a rough looking rag in his hand. “Just a small disagreement.” His eyes sparkled as he said, “no need to worry.”

“Did you do something?” Arthur asked him while he waltzed over to the chair and began scrubbing at one of the armrests.

“All I did was crack an egg in an ‘incorrect’ manner.” He shook his head as he laughed and stopped scrubbing to brush over the wood.

“There’s an incorrect way to crack an egg?” Alfred narrowed his eyes, perplexed.

David shrugged. “I have no idea, either. She asked me to help her so I obliged. I was cracking the eggs while she made her claim that the angle was wrong –”

“Umm…”

“And then some of the shell fell into the dough when she bumped my arm while complaining...”

“Oh, well now that is an issue.” Alfred put his hands on his hips. Shells were always dirty and gross. “They don’t go in food.”

“You take her side? But she was the one who…” He couldn’t keep a straight face for long. “Oh, put all that aside,” he told Alfred as he jokingly swatted him away. “Would you mind leaving to ask her to come here, please? Only if you’re not too busy yourself.”

“He is never busy,” Arthur interjected.

Alfred raised an eyebrow at him before flaunting a mischievous wink in David’s direction. “I’ll go. And I will apologize to her on your behalf for your silly little egg argument along the way.”

“Silly?” David scoffed.

“Well, in his defense I must say that is one of the strangest lovers’ quarrels I have ever heard,” Arthur smirked as he took yet another sip of his tea.

Alfred shrugged indifferently. “We’ve had worse,” he said to Arthur before skipping away, out the door and into the hall. He lost his momentum when it dawned on him – the things he implied with what he had said. His pace gradually slowed until he was almost unmoving, realizing with each step a new thing that was able to bring about an even greater blush than before.

He hurried into the tutoring room, where Missy was teaching Matthew what seemed to be geography, given the maps that were sprawled out everywhere. Oh good God, he hoped the baby would be so kind as to come soon enough to distract everyone from what he had just said.

.

  
.

It was only a few hours later when Missy went into labor, much to Alfred’s relief and the rest of the household’s great panic.

Alfred worked hard to organize everything – preparing the water, gathering scissors and thread and re-teaching Missy how to breathe as she sat on the chair, David sitting on the ground before her and Matthew holding her hand to the side.

Arthur stood before them, bewildered. “Does this not… offend your modesty?” He asked her, shifting uncomfortably. “With so many… men in here.”

Missy looked at him as if he were the strangest person on earth. “Does it matter?” She asked him. “You are a nation. You must have witnessed a birth some time in your long life.”

Arthur shook his head, startled. “No, I… childbirth has always been the domain of a woman…”

“Not even for a queen?”

“No…”

Missy chuckled for a bit before squeezing the life out of Matthew’s hand. “Well, if you don’t wanna be here… would you mind fetching me some drinking water, then? Please?”

Arthur nodded, seemingly grateful for the getaway, and he left, leaving Alfred unsettled. He seemed so frightened. And yet he was always so open about copulation back over across the Atlantic. He shook his head. That would be something he would have to check on later.

David got his attention from down on the ground. Despite Alfred being the best to help with the delivery and hold onto the baby, he quickly discovered he was far too Puritan to ever sit in such a position. So David chose to take his place. He’d only been down there an hour, after about six hours of active labor. But ever since then, it was like his cool and calm demeanor had somehow evaporated. And he’d been fretting non-stop.

“How will we manage a complication? Or a situation where our baby is in distress?”

"Yeah, well, umm...” Alfred didn’t know how to respond. In all truth, if that happened… He wouldn’t be able to do anything. “I'd appreciate it if the baby chose not to do that for us."

“Remember to sit upright, Miz.” David almost snapped at her, troubled by her hunching over so humorously. “Gravity needs to help you.”

Alfred sighed, exhausted, reminding himself to let go of his lip, which he was biting too hard. Oh, he couldn’t wait for all this to be over. And he couldn’t begin to imagine how Missy much must have been feeling either. But for some reason, when he looked at her overly bored expression, slouching over despite her husband and all his alarm, it somehow made him feel better that at least she didn’t really seem to mind so much.

.

.

Baby Williams had the most beautiful night sky eyes ever, and the second Alfred saw her looking at him while in her mother’s arms, he knew she inherited those twinkling bright bold stars from her father.

Arthur sat beside him, greeting the beautiful little girl for the first time. He wasn’t there for her birth, but at least he tried his best, taking care of most of the final clean-up for Alfred as he and Missy napped, and David bonded with his baby, learning to calm her from her stifling cries.

Matthew hadn’t taken his eyes off of the dear child either. “Have you thought of a name?” he asked her tenderly, so full of love as he watched Baby Williams be rocked and cradled to sleep.

“You had an idea, didn’t you, Miz?” David said as he hugged his wife from behind, smiling sweetly as his usual tranquil self finally returned after hours of unseen-before fretting.

Missy nodded. “Yes. I like the name ‘Deborah’. She’s a biblical woman, so you’ll like her,” she chuckled knowingly to her husband’s vocal delight. “A Judge of Israel, she is. Bossed some men around, won herself a victory in battle. I want our daughter to be strong like military leader too... So Deborah it is,” she sighed hopefully, looking down at her beautiful baby. “A defender of her people.”

Arthur smiled, bright and humored. “Oh, that is perfect.” He laughed, clapping his hands together. “You are mother and daughter; a duo of bees.”

Alfred gasped, suddenly realizing what Arthur was implying. “No way!” He gasped, excited. He then turned to the rest of them, who all looked completely and utterly baffled. “Arthur is the best with name ete… etimo…”

“Name etymology,” Arthur corrected him with a chuckle. “The meaning behind names. I am assuming your name is derived from ‘Melissa’, which is Greek for bee. Deborah means bee as well – it is Hebrew.” He chuckled again, “thus, you are two bees.”

They all grew silent for a moment, Missy with eyes wide open and an overly shocked expression. She looked down at her child, then back at Arthur, then her child again until she burst out laughing. She tried to stop herself, of course, but that didn’t matter as David’s laugh was twice as loud.

“Oh, so it is a match made in heaven!” He exclaimed. “It is destiny! Do you know any more?”

“Yeah!” Alfred, chimed in, excited by all the energy in the room. Matthew looked at him, unimpressed as he took baby Deborah into his own arms to hug her, away from all the noise. “Arthur’s really smart with that stuff. His name means bear!”

David looked surprised. “Does it now? I would have taken you for more of a lion person, Arthur.”

Alfred gasped. “You’ve seen a lion?”

He smiled patiently. “No. But I have seen the abundance of wooden carvings all around the house labelled with the word ‘lion’, so I assumed you must have been fond of them.”

Arthur couldn’t help but laugh at that. “In all fairness, there are an equal amount of unicorns carved along these walls as well.”

Alfred chuckled. “Oh Arthur, I know you have the body but of a weak and feeble lion; but you have the heart and stomach of a bear, and a bear personifying England too!” He cheered as he misquoted Good Queen Bess on purpose, earning a beautiful, shining smile from Arthur.

Matthew, however, had the audacity to break their long-withstanding eye contact. “No, I think he has a lion heart too. And a lion’s ego. He’s lion everything to me.” He chimed in with a self-satisfied grin.

Alfred shook his head, unmoved. No, Arthur was a big cuddly loveable bear through and through. He may have a lion’s pride, yes, but he was also Magna Arthur. He was and always will be Alfred’s very own great big bear – the one he would always look up to.

.

  
.

David and Arthur had left to gather some things and purchase some more supplies, while Matthew was playing with the baby in the other room.

It had been a few days since Deborah had been named, and since then there had magically been a billion more dishes to clean up. Missy had a little trouble doing them herself, and so Alfred offered to help her. It gave them some time to talk alone, out in the open fresh air and outside daylight.

“I have to admit I was nervous about marriage altogether,” she whispered to him as she dipped one of the plates in the water. “I was worried about losing myself… my work, all that I had built up for myself.” She sighed as she started scrubbing with her cloth. “Things like the coverture laws scare me… it reminds me so much of forced servitude. Davie knows this of course.” She smiled, turning the plate around and cleaning that side too. “I always feel comfortable confiding in him all my worries. It was part of why I felt so confident to marry him.”

Alfred took another plate from her cleaned pile, and began wiping it down to dry it, listening to every word she said. He often wondered how married life functioned. The more he learned about it from somebody who loved their spouse, the more he grew fascinated with the concept. But most of all, he liked learning more about who he finally felt comfortable to call his auntie figure – or whatever else you would call the adoptive parent of your half-brother.

“I suppose I was scared. He came from a very self-made family who weren't anywhere near rich, but they weren't the worst you could get, either.” She shook her head sadly. “All I had when I first moved here were some self-taught talents and skills and some smarts I gained as a maid for a young Quaker lady who would ask me to help her practice all the things her tutor taught her, just so she could impress her father.” She paused for a moment. “Of course, she was only being tutored because her father sought out to make his daughter an interesting and more salable bride... That was where her she was raised to place her value, how much she could hold a proper conversation with her future husband.” She rolled her eyes.

Alfred stayed silent, wondering for a while why such a thing was wrong. Wouldn’t a woman want to make herself an interesting bride? He looked down as it dawned on him. Missy mentioned she was ‘salable’… Something about that didn’t sit right with him. He shifted uncomfortably as he returned to drying his stack of plates. He wondered how much of a reality that was for so many of his women.

“A self-made family,” Missy continued on, as if what she had said did not affect her as greatly as it did Alfred. As if she was so used to it. “I had none of that. All I got is the memory of… my mother. My loving mother. She worked so hard to keep us alive and well. We had no solid house, Nothin’. Not even a maiden name.”

Alfred’s thoughts strayed yet again. A maiden name. Come to think of it, Alfred had never heard her introduce herself with her full name before her marriage. Was that because she had none? “You didn’t have a last name before you were married?” She asked.

“No,” she replied, rather simply. “My mother always called me Missy. I know that as my only name. It means… so much to me. It's the name that guards and protects all my best childhood memories. And there ain’t many o’ those…” She clenched her fists, seeming suddenly angry with herself. “I was poor after I lost her. I earned little. So the little that I earned, I wanted to keep it as my own. I did that for a while, but then I found here. And then I met Davie. I knew I loved him, and I knew I wanted to wed him… It was the simplest thing in the world, but the hardest decision ever. I know I made the right choice.”

But then she frowned, unsure of what else to do. “But now it keeps haunting me, and I haven’t told him this part, but I should. But I’m scared. Should I let him take all of my money to be a good wife?”

Alfred paused drying one of his last plates. He turned to her, concerned. “Do you want to?” He asked softly.

“No.” She shook her head firmly. “I want us to share the things we have with each other. You can’t share if you got nothing from yourself to give in the first place.”

Alfred sighed as he looked away. That reminded him of Anne, and one of her beautiful sermons. She was such a lovely preacher, and an excellent midwife. The best woman he’d ever known. He smiled as he thought of one of the things she said to him. “You want to keep yourself a woman’s independence,” he exhaled to the fond memory as he echoed some of her words to him.

Missy looked at him strangely. “You look like you’re remembering someone.”

“I am.”

“Is it your mystical life-saving midwife?”

Alfred laughed. “Yeah.” He took a deep breath. “Anne Hutchinson. She was one of the greatest women I’ve ever met.” He nodded as he spoke. “I always admired her sense of… sovereignty over herself when it came to her and her relationship with God.” He smiled. “That’s the thing she said that stuck with me the most… She, she was so, so determined to practice her own faith in her own personalized way… and I… I haven’t thought of her… in a long time.” He heaved out a wave of air in a soundless and exhausted laugh. Memories of humans really were so fragile and distant after some time. But he was glad he could still remember that one thing about her – that loving look in her eyes as she spoke of solid self-determination and forever-yielding faith.

“A woman’s independence, huh?” Missy hummed as she looked up and out into the big blue sky, rays of beaming light reflecting off her bright bronze fiery skin. She could have been an angel in that moment. But for now, she was a vulnerable and frightened human, tucked under the safety of her headscarf. And Alfred wanted to help her determine her own path for her marriage.

She stood suddenly, beckoning Alfred and getting him to follow her back into the house.

“Where are we going?” He asked as just before they entered her and David’s bedroom.

“A woman’s independence… that reminds me of this,” she said as she shuffled though the dozens of papers on her bedside table. “My money is earned by myself. I own it first, and then if needed, I will share with my husband,” she concluded proudly just before finding the pamphlet she was after, supposedly from her cry of delight as she held it up. “That reminds me of this.”

She held it out to Alfred so he could read the cover. He narrowed his eyes as he read the name.

“John Allen,” he said. “An Oration, Upon the Beauties of Liberty, Or the Essential Rights of Americans.” He narrowed his eyes even more. “Americans?” He stammered. “Americans? But…” He’d never really heard his people be referred to like that before… This was the land of British America... The idea of those two words separating... Was this… Could this little booklet really be written about his people?

He took a step back after taking the pamphlet from her extended hands, perplexed and somewhat excited by its existence. “Is this about…?”

“It’s a religiously inspired pamphlet. Written by a Bostonian Baptist. The writing is a transcript of a very passionate sermon delivered around December last year. It moved a lot of people. About the Gaspee Affair.”

Alfred’s enthusiasm deflated rather suddenly. “Oh.” He put it bluntly. “Why do you have it?”

Missy seemed sympathetic of his eroded excitement, but pushed on. “Because it discusses self-determination quite a bit, and the rights of non-interference from foreign powers.”

“But…” Alfred began.

“It is one of the best-selling pamphlets at the moment. So, it’s relevant to politics. And that is relevant to my job, and my goals.” She smiled.

Huh? Alfred looked at the pamphlet then back to her. So this document was somehow relevant to her goals. “How so?” He asked, tilting his head like a lost puppy, but also itching with naïve and hopeful optimism.

She hesitated, then eventually smiled, choosing to trust him. “I help distribute information between certain rebellious causes, especially for those fighting for emancipation in some way.” She then nods to herself. “I think the best course of action is to stand alongside the perspectives of this pamphlet, because it stands for the ideals of the individual’s right to themselves. This school of thought – I believe – can then help propel the Negro effort for freedom as well.”

She then put her hands on his shoulders, and looked straight into his eyes. “I like you, Alfred. I think you’re a good personification. You deserve better self-representation. And some foreign body over there shouldn’t own you like it does.” She patted his shoulder a couple times. “I help trade weapons for the sake of taking a stand. I help people in the shadows so they c’n fight for the things that are right. I want people to have their rights – and I want it written in government legislation as well.”

Alfred stared at her for a good while. She seemed so uncertain yet at the same time confident that he would bite.

“Don’t you want that too?” She finished her grandiose, taking her hands off of him and smiling at him, waiting, praying. She had hope in her heart. And faith in her eyes.

Alfred didn’t have to think of his answer. He knew what he wanted. “I want my people to be happy. Blood has been split here…. And I am willing to fight to redeem the victims.” He ran a hand through his hair, wondering were on earth he could even begin?

“Down in North Carolina… I had the personification of France help me. He would send me information on all of this stuff. I lost him when I moved back up here.”

Missy snapped her fingers, very happy. “I’ll keep you in touch with my men, then.”

Alfred beamed. Of course. So he’d lost one dispatcher, but now he’d gained another, and right under his nose at that. He couldn’t be more happy, now he was to earn his information through someone he trusted and understood far more as his own rather than he could ever understand a foreign nation.

“Oh… Thank you so much.” He said as he smiled, feeling relieved and relaxed but also energized and abundant.

“You’re welcome” she winked playfully. “Take this as my thanks… Thank you for listening to me.”

Alfred nodded, happy to help her. But he was also ecstatic to finally get things moving. It felt so liberating to hear his very own sentiments – and the sentiments of many of his people he would feel in meditation – revealed so vocally and so boldly before him.

Oh! He wondered when he could tell Arthur about this… Poor Arthur was tasked with all the hefty and busy loads of paperwork and a lot more meetups now, given he was residing up in New England again. It was a lot for him, and Alfred knew he was struggling. Alfred didn’t want to overload him. He supposed the best time to share it would be whenever Arthur would give him the time of day and ask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Miz Williams... Based on how history goes, it kinda feels like she's backing a horse that might kick back at her later. In that way, she somewhat reminds me of Perchik. 
> 
> History notes!  
> 1\. The birthing chair, and other things regarding childbirth back in the day...  
> Lying on your back for childbirth was a trend inspired by [or at least the start of it can be traced back to] Louis XIV of France who liked watching the view of a child been born and thought that the traditional birthing stools and chairs 'obstructed the view' of his lovely hobby... yeah...  
> Interested in more about the history of childbirth in teh Western world, especially in 1750–1950 USA? Check out this paper by Laura Kaplan published for the [University of Chicago!](https://hekint.org/2017/01/27/changes-in-childbirth-in-the-united-states-1750-1950/)
> 
> Why is Arthur so weirded out by this whole situation? Well, its partially because men being involved in childbirth was an extremely new thing! Usually no physicians [who were always male] were called in to help until 1762 in America, and it took even longer than that for the trend to really set in – in fact the whole doctor/midwife war is still a very alive and ongoing thing to this day… oh dear.
> 
> Also, Anne Hutchinson!!! A Puritan preacher, service holder and devoted wife, midwife and family woman. One of the most vocal people within the Free Grace Controversy that rocked the Puritan church and the whole of the Massachusetts Bay Colony from 1636 to 1638. She's one of my most favorite women ever. If you don't know her, please do yourself a favor and read a book or watch a video on her!
> 
> Also, here is [the Oration by John Allen,](http://gaspee.org/Allen.html) I haven't read it myself because I'm lazy but I have read about it and its effects in a textbook, so...  
> I'm sleepy so this is pirated from Wikipedia:  
> "[From] The Gaspee [Affair]... one of the most important pre-independence pamphlets to circulate within the colonies, [was] John Allen’s **An Oration, Upon the Beauties of Liberty, Or the Essential Rights of Americans.** Allen, a little-known preacher at the Second Baptist Church in Boston, gave an emotional sermon in December 1772 that played upon colonial fears and prejudices. Though Allen was not a particularly notable thinker or writer, and his arguments were not always accurate or consistent, his Oration went through seven printings (five editions) published in four different cities. **Allen argued that England and America were separate judicial spheres and one could not interfere with the other.** He addressed his message to Lord Dartmouth and portrayed the actions of colonials as merely self-defense, not rebellion, an important distinction for his reading audience in early 1773. When Oration was published it ranked among the best-selling pamphlets of the crisis."
> 
> Thanks for reading... and buckle up, buddies, cause guess what big historical revolutionary event happens in 1773 that's in the next chapter, o boy!! ;))))
> 
> See you next time !!!! :D


	21. The year was 1773

Alfred’s eyes slowly fluttered open. He sighed into the bed, leaning up glance at the curtains covered in a misty blue haze. The morning was still fresh; the sun had not yet risen. He crawled out of bed, rubbing his eyes as he mentally prepared himself for the journey ahead.

Missy told him about a series of meetings that were being held in several different cities. He yawned as he leaned against the wall, peeking behind the curtain and glancing at the beautiful opaque outskirts of the house. She said the hosts of these meetings called themselves the Sons of Liberty. He smiled. It sounded exciting. Based on their name alone, he knew immediately he wanted to take part in whatever action they were planning.

They seemed to be some sort of underground protesting group, based on what she’d told him. They formed in 1765, she told him, much to his amusement. 1765, huh? Maybe those men were psychic. They could feel the pain he felt in the Lodge all those years ago the same way he could feel his peoples’ spirit through meditation.

1765, huh? He walked away from the window, and strolled around the bedroom. There were so many riots back in ’65. It was a comfort to know they lashed out the same year he was suffering so much. It made him feel like their union was a two-way street.

He tried to ask Missy more about them, but she couldn’t exactly say so anymore. She’d been nesting up, making this hive into a real baby bee’s home ever since Deborah was born. And that was moths ago already. _By God_ , Alfred exclaimed to himself. _It’s been months already!_

She did mention for him to be careful, though. Apparently they tarred and feathered those who got on their bad side. He wasn’t so sure how he felt about that.

He walked around the bed, to Arthur’s side. He was still sleeping soundly. Of course he was, he could sleep through anything. He never was and never would be a morning person.

Alfred leaned down next to him, sitting on the floor with his legs tucked in. He had to wake him up and tell him about the meetings. They were about the tea taxes after all, and Arthur loved tea. It was an undeniable fact that he would love to come too.

Oh boy. He was such a heavy sleeper. He had strands of hair only just long enough to reach over his eyes. Such a light shade of blonde – it looked so grey in the sunless morning. Alfred reached out a hand and brushed it behind his ear.

And Arthur smiled, humming about something he saw in his dreams. He was so peaceful, and so youthful too. He was always so stressed, but then again, how could he not be? He was a nation – not only that but an empire. And the work of it all had been building up to unimaginable lengths given that they were both on the run. Alfred couldn’t recall the last time he looked both relaxed and conscious in this house.

He looked beautiful like that, sleeping so soundly. But then again, he was so ridged and straight when he slept. You could put him in a coffin. Alfred breathlessly chuckled to himself. How different it was to how he slept, on his tummy and sprawled out all over the bed. He took up most of the space. Arthur took up barely anything. They were the perfect match for sleeping buddies.

Sleeping buddies? Gah! He shook his head and averted his eyes. Before slowly looking back at him again. How could Alfred keep away? It was a crime. He was so beautiful… Alfred wondered if he opened those emerald eyes, if they would glow so bright and wonderful despite the dark morning. And his lips too. They looked so soft.

They looked so nice.

Before he could tell what he was doing, he was leaning in. But then he stopped himself, only inches away. Because Arthur stirred.

He shot back, standing up and shaking. He felt so jittery. No… No, no. This was wrong. _This is wrong._

He shook his hands a couple of times, pacing back and forth in the room. Oh, why did his emotions always slip through, despite his constant hard work to keep them at bay? He should have just left him alone.

He took another step back, then another, watching Arthur with the paranoid eyes of the prey. Oh, if he had been caught… Thank God he was the one to catch himself.

He shook about one more time before reaching the door of the room. There he took a coat from the rack, and headed out, all the way through the house and out the entrance and into the stable-barn.

He had to… he had to get to Boston. There was a meeting being held, and he didn’t want to miss it.

When he entered the stable, Peggy was there. Set and packed already, Missy must have prepared her for him. How swift and stealthy of her. A buzz as quiet as a bee. Alfred grimaced. He supposed bees needed to be that quiet to hide from any unwanted bears.

Peggy was a good horse. She could travel fast. And anyone Alfred would stop to ask for directions would point that out to him. They would admire her, pat her. All while Alfred got more information about this mass meeting supposedly in town. Apparently it was being run by a man called Samuel Adams. Not only that, but he was the one who organised the things in Boston. There were other men as well, all who took charge in other cities. There was even a branch of them in old New York, controlled by an ex-privateer; Alexander McDougall. An ex-privateer! When he heard that from one of the really nice yeomen he passed, he couldn’t help but smile. How exhilarating! He wondered how Arthur would feel about that. Or even Captain Dougal, a Scottish sailor with such a similar name.

In all, it took about four days for he and her to arrive in Boston. The weather was wonderful, and he’d made a few acquaintances along the way as well! They were young men too, and they were travelling for the exact same reason that he was. It was a miracle, and Alfred loved the whole ride very much. They’d immersed themselves in playful games and ridiculous chatter the entire time, and when they finally did arrive, they agreed to cut the cost and share a room.

Which was where Alfred was sitting in when one of the men waltzed into the room with new news. “Apparently the information we had was a little outdated. The original mass meeting was to be held at Faneuil Hall, as you know. But now we’re… going to someplace.” He tilted his head as he tried to read what had been written clearly _for_ him rather than by.

Alfred hopped out of his seat, leaned over the man’s shoulder and read it. “The ‘Old South Meeting House.’” He hummed. He’d never been there. It sounded nice and cozy.

“Well. That’s a creative name,” the other one jested as he put down his drawing utensils.

The man with the paper ignored him, lost in his thoughts. “Ahh,” he said as he suddenly snapped his fingers. “I know where that is!”

So when the time came, about a day later, the three of them all made it, standing in the old white well-painted meeting house together. They’d only just about managed to squish in, though. Somehow. Miraculously. With the sheer amount of people who were in there, it certainly was nothing short of a miracle. Even women had bundled up into groups and surrounded themselves around the outside of the house for a glimpse of the overflowing fiasco. Alfred wondered if he could take back his previous comments about it being all nice and cozy. Cause it was real hot and heated now.

There must have been thousands of people at the gathering. The more crowded it grew, the more wild the people chattered, pushed and prodded. It was a rambunctious group of people – and no leader had yet shown up to guide them.

It was beginning to grow ridiculous until one man finally shouted, “why are we here?”

“You all know why we are here.” Another man said as he made his way into the altar and slammed his paper down onto the pillar stand. “This tea tax is making things expensive. This is why we have resulted to Dutch smuggling!”

A quiet man from beside him moved into the picture, mumbling at the crowd, “the cost of tea from the British is now officially cheaper than it is from the Dutch –”

“And that is exactly the point of this meeting!” The paper-slammer continued. “Why must we pay taxes to sell the same things that they do with exemptions? It is monopolized control – that is the issue. We should have the right to sell at the same price as The Company and trade with whom we want to. And we choose the Dutch!”

“I’ve always preferred trading with the Dutch anyway.” Another man within the crowd – near the front – boasted with a dismissive expression. “They’re more blunt and honest, and they don’t serve you snide complements to disguise their disgust with you.” Yet before he could even finish his comment the room began clucking and complaining again like a heap of wild chickens.

A certain argument at the back suddenly made the most sound. “We don’t want some British built ships bringing in our tea, acting as some mediating nanny for us!”

“Oh, many of these boats were built from here, not Britain, you asses!” The voice sent shockwaves within the crowd, many horrified by his outlandish choice of words around women. “This is American trade you are hindering!”

“All the more reason to cut off these taxes! We sell off our ships to The Company with no consideration of support for our own local merchants and businesses.” Another shouted before speaking again, bringing about a more bellicose tone. “We refuse these ships and all the things they represent, and we will not trade with them while these laws remain instated.”

“Yes, remove them! This Act only works to soften our resolve for future.”

“Eventually more forceful taxes will be implemented by the King. This is his method of lulling us in. We must put an end to it now!”

“End this tyranny!”

Then a sudden burst sounded, and a ruffle of men charged in through the open door, forcing others to shuffle about and part ways for them to head straight for the alter. The men already standing there screamed and shouted out for order, and one of the elder yeomen slammed his cane down on the table, enforcing silence within the room.

When the leader of this new group spoke, he sounded like an exhausted father catching his children running about in the dark. “I believe we must all agree the issue here is not the existence of tax itself.” He waited for a moment as he gave the audience a steady look. The only sounds heard in response were a few coughs, and so he continued. “The King, his court and all of their ghastly intervention without our consent remains the culprit of this case. Our interests should be our own. There should be no taxation without representation –”

The crowd began cheering. Clearly this was what they wanted to hear. And it was what Alfred wanted to hear as well. He whooped and hollered along side them. The energy was so contagious. And he couldn’t help but feel like the setting sun was shining down bright on him.

It took a few moments for the crowd to die down before the man continued. “New York, Philadelphia, and Charleston. These are all the latest to successfully compel the tea consignees of their cities to resign. We are now last on the list, my dear Massachusetts Bay. We can now either demand this Act be revoked or we may rebel and send this tea back to England. Any further actions of ours now rely upon the response of Governor Hutchinson.”

And thus, the people were left to their own devices and constant mumbling yet again. Yet there was no longer shuffling, and in the span of receiving that news, many people had spread out, and given each other space. The winter cold had caught up to the crowd, and many stood tired, cold and bothersome. Alfred distracted himself by introducing himself to all the people around him, learning their stories and regaining his heat and energy through the buzz and excitement of meeting new people.

That was, until, eventually rumors of a response from the governor had swept over the crowd.

Everyone regathered, and every heart was beating fast once again. But then it was revealed that Governor Hutchinson had once again refused to let the ships leave for England, nor did he have any comments about leveling out all the excess taxes the locals – both legal and illegal in their trade – had to pay.

Everyone was either moaning, groaning, or looking really angry. Everyone was fired up. The cold winter was forgotten once again. This continued for a few more minutes, and the leader of the meeting spoke some more but Alfred couldn’t hear a word under all the busy noise.

After maybe ten minutes of the main leader trying to restore order – Alfred had learned from another that he was Mr Adams – or maybe even been fifteen, people began pouring out of the meeting hall. Samuel Adams tried his hardest to keep everyone inside, and a few men repeated his message, shouting the meeting was not yet complete, yet most did not care. All were angry. And they were leaving to find ways to deal with such emotions.

It was wild when Alfred found himself walking right out the meeting house. Men and women parted like the red sea, dispersing in all different directions. He was about to step forward before feeling someone grab his arm – one of his roommates – and pull him to the side.

He led him around the corner, and showed him to a bunch of teen boys in all their juvenescent glory. And off he plunged into the deep sea waters of young Bostonian life.

“You should hear my family,” one of them moped on while they were discussing each other’s hardships. “My parents are so worried about the trade monopoly. It will leave dozens of local families in financial ruin. Just see how many rely on their own home-grown businesses for an income to survive.”

Another boy with impassioned amber eyes nodded. “Yes! These are people’s businesses. People’s livelihoods! This is more than money; it is about how people live their lives…”

“Wah’ bout that time the govment made tha’ proclamation about the land,” said a boy who’d lost a few teeth. “That waz ten years ago and most people forgo’ it but mother ‘n father still remember the wounds from I’.”

Alfred narrowed his eyes, trying to figure out what the hell he was talking about. He couldn’t really remember a proclamation, and when he could, it wasn’t well. In all honesty, in the height of all these acts and policy changes, he’d forgotten all about any proclamations… The only one he could think of was that treaty about banning people from settling on any land past Ohio. Now that angered quite a lot of ambitious colonists. In fact, the more he thought of it, the more he was certain that was the very proclamation the boy was speaking of – the Royal Proclamation of ‘63.

Well, damn. He’d completely forgotten about that proclamation. People were so mad about it back in the day… and yet he’d completely forgotten about it. Clearly it hadn’t had any lasting impacts on the minds of many of his people either. Except for a select few, like the parents of dear little toothless here, who was still speaking to him.

“Huh?” He said, unsure of what he’d missed in his daze.

“I said ‘do you wana come wif us?” The boy repeated, agitated.

“To where?”

The amber-eyed one rolled his eyes. “We’re playing a little dress up then paying a little visit to the ships we’re holding captive.”

“Yeah,” Alfred’s roommate smirked. “Don’t you hear the whispers in the crowds? They’re all whispering their goodbyes to all that tea. Because tonight, we’re planning to take it out for a little swim…”

And well, that was one hell of a devious yet delightful offer Alfred just couldn’t refuse.

.

.

It was six o’clock. The very first thing Alfred was debriefed on was the illegality of what he was doing. He couldn’t care less, though; the ecstatic feeling in the room divorced him of any regard for the law.

He was quick to find out most of the men involved in this plan were far older than himself – in appearance, at least. Most were men of business; others were radical yeomen who wanted in on some of the fun and drama. All were affected by the harms of British Parliament’s constant economic meddling.

In all, there were only sixteen boys within the team of troublemakers he found himself with, yet Alfred found himself befriending them fast.

The more he walked around, chatting to the men and learning more about their plans, the more and more he discovered this was anything but some spontaneous protest. No, this was clearly something bigger than that. This was a planned event, through and through.

Instructions were clear. Stay low. Stay quiet. Crank open the crates, then pour the tea into the sea. Cause if the two words rhyme, then it’s only fate the two things should meet with each other as well.

Lastly, it was made very clear. _Do not_ damage any other property on the ships. And _do not_ get caught or reveal your face to any person outside of the group.

Now, that last rule, Alfred found interesting. Because that rule gave birth to some of the wackiest and yet most elaborately done up attire and ‘dress up’ costumes he had ever seen.

The most outrageous ones were for sure the Mohawk costumes. Clearly falsified, wackily-done regalia. The men could have passed for warriors… if one had never seen the true warriors before and knew just how terribly far off they really were. Oh, it was an ugly mess. But damn good outfits for an attacker who wished to remain incognito.

They all had met up by the ships in smaller groups of thirty to forty men, quickly coming together for a bit before finally dispersing and boarding those three lonesome vessels, left hollow and ready for a raid in the dear old bay of Boston, Massachusetts.

The moon shone so bright; Alfred could have argued they didn’t need any candles to light the way. But he knew very well they were not to say a word, so he kept the thought to himself. He couldn’t stop himself from giggling and chuckling every now and again, though, as he rushed and raced against time in a playful bid to find a chest first – far before any of his fellow newfound friends could.

Careful not to hit or break anything else, he headed down into the storage room of one of the ships. He made a left turn, then a right one… then bam! Yes! He found a chest of tea! Yes, yes! He squealed as he jumped up and down. Victory was for him! He whistled out, and suddenly a few of the boys he knew were by his side, helping him carry the chest out and up to the top deck.

One of the men handed them a stave, and they stuck it in the joints, cranked it up and ripped the top right off, revealing a sea of tea leaves stacked up within. Oh, and it was such a loud sound that cranking made. If the people on the wharf hadn’t caught sight of them by now, then they would have certainly heard the massive wave of cranks and creaks as chest after chest was ripped into and flung wide open.

Alfred saw no need to keep quiet anymore. Super excited, he jumped around and laughed like a maniac. He even leaned over the side of the boat, whooping and hollering as his friends cheered him on and laughed alongside him. A few tall men told him to shut up, but his roommate in particular ripped right into the main man causing commotion as if he were a chest himself, using crisp and colorful language to damn him straight to hell for trying to ruin their fun.

The group, no, the _party_ of rebellious rouges eventually opened all the crates and containers. It was taking them three whole hours, and any man who tried taking some tea and stashing it in his pockets earned a righteous slap right on the wrists. No tea was to be taken home! It was all to go in the sea…

“Take that you bastard king!” Alfred cried out as he picked up one of the chests and dumped it all into the water far below. Hundreds of chests were already overboard. This was just one more. But it made all the difference.

Because he felt… liberated. With each swing, and each new chest of tea he chucked, and threw, and screamed at, and laughed and danced and celebrated as he wondered how nice the sea would taste now, he found himself more and more liberated. He was throwing those damn tea taxes into the sea. He was throwing Parliament’s control of him and his people into the sea. He was throwing the King himself right into that damned frozen cold ocean.

The King himself! Oh God! That bastard! That scoundrel! He dare lay a hand on Alfred! He dare lay a hand on Arthur! He dare yell at him! He dare hurt him! No! No! He was in the sea now! Alfred had chucked him into the sea now! He felt free… he felt free! He had chucked the King into the sea!

He held himself over the railing, holding his eyes closed as he felt the ocean-born wind blowing through his hair and he heard the men hard at work, still throwing more chests out, off and into the water far below. He let in a big breath of air, and then let it all out.

He could feel it. He could feel how some of his scars would always remain. But his heart was still beating… and it will always beat fast and strong for retribution.

“Alfred,” one of the older men said to him quietly after tapping him on the shoulder. “It is time to go.”

He opened his eyes, looking around at the sight of an empty top deck shining bright in the middle of the moonlight, and on it, a series of exhausted men ready to head home. Some of them were still working, if only to grab some brushes and scrubs and were sweeping up the loose tea leaves that remained on the floor.

“Come now, Alfred. We must leave quick. We do not know how far away Admiral Montagu’s squadron may be. He may let them open fire if we do not leave so soon before they catch us.”

Alfred looked at the man, then back at the men. His men. And he smiled softly.

“Yes,” he said. “We should go.”

When they left the ships, they all decided to leave with a little bang. The men who still had their cranks and hatchets and other knives and box-cutting devices left them on full display, on their hips or their shoulders. Haha, they looked like a marching band. No, no. They _were_ a marching band. They even had a fifer!

Alfred giggled and skipped and hopped to the sound of the fifer’s tunes. It was so silly, so stupid. It was a lot of mischief, yet it also held a lot of dignity and a respect for discipline as they marched along, nice and neat and straight into the town. He couldn’t help but enjoy the journey. He couldn’t help but adore the last little words and chants of glory the men shouted and decreed with each other ‘a job well done!’

And there it was. They called the mission a success, and then they all went home.

Or, in Alfred’s case at least, the room he was still renting. He reasoned he could have a good night’s sleep for tonight. It was nine-thirty, after all.

He could just take Peggy home with him tomorrow.

.

.

He couldn’t exactly get over how slumped over and exhausted Arthur looked on their bed when he got home, however.

“Where were you?” Those three words pierced him faster than a bullet, and hacked into his heart harsher than the brute force of an ax.

Alfred bit his lip, holding his hands tightly together as he looked down at the ground. He never ended up telling Arthur about going to Boston… did he? He forgot all about it. He’d run off and forgotten to tell him. All because he was caught up about trying to kiss him. Oh God, he couldn’t look at him in the eyes.

Arthur knew Alfred had run away for something. He’d been gone for days. And now he was asking. Arthur was asking. And Alfred knew he had to honor that promise he made him. They promised to tell each other things. They promised to be honest. So he was going to be, dammit. No matter how hard it was.

“I went to Boston,” he started, trying to clear his throat. “I went there to see the meetings that were being planned by umm… Mr Samuel Adams. They were, umm.” He scratched his head. “They were about the tea tax, and how it's unfair the East India Company got to be exempt from it…”

Arthur stared at him blankly. “Go on.”

Alfred sighed, and it sounded long and jagged and scared. No, no. He could do this. This was just Arthur. He was all right.

He swallowed first. “So everyone got mad that these few ships weren’t leaving because they refused to take any tea from the Company and that tea was from the Company. Everyone wanted them to leave but they weren’t going anywhere despite the protests… So a bunch of men raided them and… poured about…” He frowned. “Three hundred and… forty… two? Yeah, three hundred and forty-two crates of…” Alfred gulped as he watched Arthur’s expression. “Tea… into the sea.”

Arthur watched him for a while. He was silent for far too long. “That is… a lot of money, Alfred. That is a lot of money gone.”

Alfred couldn’t look at him any longer. He sat down on their bed and held his knees up to his chest.

“Did you take part in this?”

Alfred couldn’t answer him.

And then there was a sudden scoff, followed by a fiery tune. “That was private property, Alfred. Do you not have any respect for private property?”

Alfred shifted, his head staying down in shame. He wanted to say they did respect the ships, and the property on it too. They didn’t damage anything but the tea… But he couldn’t… but he couldn’t say it.

“This goes against everything…” Arthur gasped, outraged as he got up and paced around in the room. “This is vandalism, Alfred! It is the rejection of a man’s personal rights to his property. It is a rejection of the Magna Carta –” Alfred yelped as he looked up, shocked this time – “and it is a rejection of the Magna Arthur, too.”

Alfred stared up at him, silent and wide eyed and broken hearted. No… this wasn’t what he thought would happen. Arthur wasn’t… he wasn’t livid. He was dejected. He was downright exhausted. Alfred wasn't expecting this. He was expecting Arthur's anger. That he could take. That he understood. But this... He could barely stand this. And Alfred felt his breathing rapidly grow heavier and faster. Because for some reason that was a whole lot worse.

“Arthur…”

Arthur held up a finger to shut him up as he hastily walked away towards one of the drawers. “I think now is about the time to show you…” He began, sounding determined yet out of place as he pulled it open and shuffled through its contents. “I _was_ working on this…” He plonked a stack of papers onto the bed, right in front Alfred. He read the title as it glared at him accusingly. It mentioned something about tax relief. Oh, dear God no…

“I was going to try and convince our superiors that the increased production and trade between the two of us will be a well-earned trade-off for any temporary losses in extra assets we would have by lowering the tax bracket over here. I do not know that it would be true, but I was willing to try it for you.”

Alfred rubbed his hands over his face. “Why…” he whispered. Why would he draft something like that? Arthur always said he needed the money. He could quite vividly remember how seething the empire was at Captain Dougal the moment he realized the man was bypassing his taxes. So why would he do this now? “How?”

“I was planning to send this to Parliament as soon as I finalized it. I thought they could begin implementing it for us and then I would finish the job when we would personally feel safe to return. I assumed that would be after… the current king has died. By then, my debt should be somewhat relieved, and such tax brackets may relax.”

Alfred shook his head. “So you are saying you are stunting all progress because of _him_.”

Arthur sighed. “We have to, Alfred.”

“Why not now?” Alfred said as he shifted to look right into Arthur’s eyes. “Why must we wait for him to die? Why must we wait for a monarch to die? –”

“Alfred, no…”

“– Can we not just act for change _now_?”

“Remember your promise, Alfred.” Arthur said sternly. “You promised you would be patient with me. We will be patient and wait for the truth to come out. Until then, we must wait for his death. Eventually, God will smite the man, and then life may return to how it was before for us. There and then, it may finally end.”

“No!” Alfred snapped. “No! It won’t be the end! I won’t be the end because as soon as he dies, another king will take his place! And then he might do the exact same things too!” He shook his head again, remembering long ago how he thought of the tyrannical cycle of kings.

“A king whose apparent ‘God-given’ right,” he muttered mockingly, “is to abuse the personifications given to him! Is that it, huh? I cannot accept that! I can’t! How could God allow such a thing to happen? How can we allow tyrants to exist and then just replace them with even greater tyrants when they die, all with the sad excuse that this is the will of some almighty God? That just leads to a never-ending cycle of tyranny!”

Arthur scoffed at him. “Alfred, these are all based on assumptions…” He tried to look dismissive, but Alfred could see the denial and the fear. “Do you not see? These policies affecting you, the ones that sparked all of those revolts that happened over here and over back at my house too. They were all caused by a member of parliament with whom his Majesty would always _argue_ with – they were not from the monarch himself, don't you see? Besides, George was the one who stepped in to _remove_ the Stamp Act when it became a craze to hate on it. That Act is only gone _by_ the hands of the King, not anyone else. And that was the very Act that sparked all of these larger riots in the first place!”

Alfred couldn't do anything but stare at him, confused and hurt and horrified with the way Arthur was… defending that horrid man! How... How could he? After everything they had been through by the violence of his clenched fists... Arthur only now chooses to defend him just because they were once apparently open palms?

Arthur continued speaking, but Alfred just wanted it all to stop. “It is parliament doing this, not the monarchy.” He picked up the papers and waved them around in the air as if they were his conducting baton. “And it is parliament whom I must address in this –”

“Well how about Parliament then?” Alfred fired back. He couldn’t hear properly any more. His head was still spinning as if he were hungover. “They have their own corruption too. They represent themselves but who else? How about our people? Who represents us? Where is their say? Where is _our_ say? Y’know… maybe God made tyrants such as these bastards just for the sake of starting a revolt and inspiring people to make change for themselves!” Alfred began, but Arthur cut him off.

He looked at him as if he were a wild beast. “Alfred,” he nearly gasped. The tone in his voice was killer but the look in his eyes were desperate. It made Alfred feel nothing but pity for him “Alfred… That is a radical mentality.”

“Yes, it is,” he whispered it as if it were simple, plain and obvious. He continued prodded on with his little idea, fascinated with it himself. “Maybe God has sent us both a tyrant so we may change our paths. Maybe this is a sign that we must look for other methods of governance. Wipe it all out, the whole thing. The kings, the parliamentarians, the governors of the provinces. All of them; gone. Start with a clean slate.”

He took a deep breath, and his eyes were wide with wonder. The appeal had caught up to him, and he laid back onto the bed, entranced by his own wondrous thoughts. What a world that sounded like. Such a good distraction from their current conflict. “Imagine a world where most of the people held the most say, and not just some tiny group from the very top... Maybe all of this is a call from God for us to rise up and spark a change in power, and –”

Arthur hushed him instantly. “Stop! That is enough! Those are dangerous thoughts, Jones.” He sounded so panicked. This wasn’t at all how he’d expected Arthur to react. He thought he would be so mad. He thought he would be so angry. But instead he got fear. It made him worried, unnerved. It made him want to reach out and hug him. But he didn’t know if Arthur would welcome such a thing in such a state. After all, it was Alfred who was prodding him on. 

“Whatever fantasy you are thinking of, abandon it at once. I demand it. Reality…” Arthur heaved as if fighting for his life and very soul before he finally continued, sounding exasperated and melancholic in tone. “It will not be as you think.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear... things are starting to go a bit south, aren't they?... oh no...
> 
> Sources I used for info on the Boston Tea Party, [which as an event happened in December, 1773]:
> 
> [One](https://www.history.com/topics/american-revolution/boston-tea-party#section_1)
> 
> [Two](https://teachinghistory.org/history-content/ask-a-historian/20343)
> 
> [Three [described what the tea was like, I didn't really use it much but it was a cool read]](https://www.bostonteapartyship.com/tea-blog/types-of-teas-destroyed)
> 
> Here is what the Interior of [the Old South Meeting House looks like, if you're interested. I have no idea how thousands of people could gather there at once, but alas...](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Old_South_Meeting_House#/media/File:Interior_-_Old_South_Meeting_House_-_Boston,_MA_-_DSC05822.jpg)
> 
> Also, here is an excerpt from [this article here if you want more knowledge on the afterward effects of the whole fiasco:](https://www.history.com/news/10-things-you-may-not-know-about-the-boston-tea-party)  
> " **It was the British reaction to the Boston Tea Party, not the event itself, that rallied Americans.**  
>  Many Americans shared Washington’s sentiment and viewed the Boston Tea Party as an act of vandalism by radicals rather than a heroic patriotic undertaking. There was less division among the colonists, however, about their opposition to the measures passed by the British government in 1774 to punish Boston. The legislation closed the port of Boston until damages were paid, annulled colonial self-government in Massachusetts and expanded the Quartering Act. Colonists referred to the measures as the “Intolerable Acts,” and they led to the formation of the first Continental Congress. "
> 
> Do you want to know something strange? Well loyalist Governor Thomas Hutchinson of the Massachusetts Bay Colony was a descendant of dear old Anne Hutchinson. She always said she was a prophetess, and that her final judgement would reign over the colony of Massachusetts and destroy it. In a way, she did destroy it. Because according to Historian Bernard Bailyn, "If there was one person in America whose actions might have altered the outcome [of the protests and disputes preceding the American Revolutionary War], it was" her descendant, Thomas Hutchinson. But he failed his task to regain control. And so, the revolution happened, and the colony was destroyed; it is gone now. The U.S. State of Massachusetts has taken its place!
> 
>  **Extra notes about the King and his court:**  
>  Yeah, it is true King George III got the Stamp Act repealed because it was so unpopular. He also argued like hell against many of the MP in British Parliament over how they were treating the colonies. Regarding the nature of him as a real person, he was definitely a morally grey person. He did some awful things, and some really good things. But most of all, he wasn't a stupid man. He wanted to keep the colonies in line and right under British rule. The best way to do that, he believed [AT FIRST!!], was to appease them. This mindset lasted... until the Revolution, where you could say he got a... bit more aggressive. Ahh, gee whiz...
> 
> Again, Thank you for reading!! Comments mean the world to me!!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed and see you next chapter! (((\\[^-^]/)))


	22. The year was 1775

Arthur didn’t take too kindly to Alfred’s little antics at Boston, but that was nothing in comparison to how his own Parliament responded to it. They’d already been loosely occupying Boston for seven long years, and all they needed was a little excuse to tighten that grip with iron.

Boston was his trade. Massachusetts was one of his biggest ports. It was where his colonists would go to breathe. It was his fresh air, his freedom. And yet now the infantry had tightened its grip around his airways.

It frustrated Alfred. It made him angry, and it made him feel sick. He felt like he was wearing shackles all the time. He was being punished for his defiance, and now he had to bear the brunt of it.

A series of Acts were passed last year. The ports of Boston were closed. Not that it mattered anyway, with all the boycotts of British imports. But that wasn’t all. Ever local position of governance had been removed, passing on all power to the lone Tory governor, Parliament of Britain and the King. There was even something new about royal officials being allowed to apply for offshore trials if they felt colonial judges were too strict. Everyone knew that was ridiculous, however, it was just an excuse to dismiss all the abuse of his people without any costly reprimands.

Oh, and they made the Quartering Act more strict. The most hopeful thing he could say about that was at least the army seemed to leave a private home alone if it was already occupied, but that was little comfort for his people. God knew how much that Act scared his local girls, most of all.

And then to add more insult to injury, Parliament allowed the Province of Quebec to expand into land already claimed by his Ohio Company! What was the point of his troops dying in the French and Indian War again?

No wonder whenever Alfred would waltz up to the market, trying to stay optimistic, his people would instantly dampen his bright little mood by bringing up those stupid ‘redcoat devils’, as they were so aggressively nicknamed.

He couldn’t ever agree with such a horrible title. After all, Arthur looked so handsome in his uniform and Alfred was sure as hell that he was no Devil. But he could very much agree that all these new Acts were completely intolerable.

It was a great shame, however, that his people feel so angry that they would be brave enough and risky enough to declare some of his homeland a battleground. And it was frightening, too, to feel the effects of being subdued, tired and in constant pain all the time from the increased feeling of his people fighting.

Arthur had to leave again. Battles had begun and Boston was under siege. He said he had to go negotiate with his army, and play his part. Everything was too far done to turn back now. But that would be a tricky and complicated battle in and of itself. A complex balance between proving his own status to the ranks while also ensuring he wouldn’t be seen by any authorities cheap enough to sell him out and send him back to the King.

It hurt Alfred a lot to watch him pack and prepare to leave, almost as much as – Gah! He clenched his gut, grasping as his clothes. It hurt almost as much as the fights that were already being fought. But most of all, it hurt to hear in his own words just exactly why Arthur thought he had to leave.

“I have to keep these people in line, Alfred.” He hissed while folding an envelope. “Or who knows how this will end…”

“Are you sure this is a wise idea? How do you know if it’s safe for you out there?”

Arthur sighed. “You will be safe here with Matthew and the others.”

“That’s not an answer to my question.”

An angry scowl. “I will be back in a few days.”

Alfred shook his head, exasperated as he watched Arthur turn around for one more time before heading out the door.

“Now remember, try not to move around so much. If these stupid people think they are in a civil war, then your body will act like it too. I’m sure you’re aware already that it can be quite painful –”

“Yes,” he groaned. Wasn’t that obvious?

“Therefore, you must stay in bed until you recover.”

Oh, _come on!_ Alfred narrowed his eyes at him. “No.”

 _“Stay. In. bed_. _”_

All Alfred could do in response was grunt and back down. Arthur was right. Alfred knew he was in pain; he wasn’t a fool. He knew it was a dangerous pain. Arthur even had a special name for it; he called it ‘civil war status’ and said that every personification – nation or smaller – would fell it during their own civil conflicts. But he was also incredibly quick to reassure Alfred that it should be over very soon.

Alfred also knew that this call for bed wasn’t malice. It was merely Arthur’s attempt to keep him safe, despite how annoying the methodology was to endure. He knew Arthur was right. It was an exhausting task just for him to get out of bed in every morning.

Well, he was sort of right. Nothing could ever stop Alfred from roaming in and around the house or at the markets. It was his joy, his reason and will to see the day. He’d much rather endure the pain of walking and exploring around than the idea of staying cooped up in bed for so long. But Arthur didn’t need to know the sort of things he was still planning to do. He knew, for now, it would be best for him to keep quiet about it. He didn’t want things to get tense between them just before they parted ways.

And so Arthur left, and Alfred was alone with Mattie and Missy and Deborah to keep him company in their humbly quiet living room.

That was until the door silently crept open, and who else would tip-toe in but a very hushed and sneaky-looking David.

Oh, so he was home early. He must have wrapped up his carpentry for the day really quickly for him to arrive at home at such an early hour.

Alfred and Matthew were the ones to spot him first, watching him all amused and confused before he put a finger to his lips and pleaded in gesture for their silence. They obeyed, but not before sharing a glance with each other and a mocking smirk. Alfred continued to play with Deborah on the floor as if nothing had changed while Mattie distracted Missy by asking her a question.

He had a bundle of flowers in his arms, freshly plucked and picked that day. Alfred couldn’t help but laugh when he snuck up on Missy, hugging her from behind and planting the flowers right into her hands.

She gasped, her mouth open wide in sudden shock before she started chuckling then began laughing. She spun around on her heels and hugged him again, this time face to face with him as he picked her up and spun her around a couple times.

Deborah giggled in delight and she stood up and wobbled about as she made her way to her parents, struggling to catch onto her mother’s legs and cling onto them while they were still stuck up in the air. Matthew smiled as he stood up and picked her up, placing her into David’s arms before the man enveloped him into the big family hug as well.

Alfred smiled as he watched from the floor, knowing all to well that getting up would be too much a challenge with all the aches and pains he faced. So he focused on watching, noticing as Missy’s headscarf came undone and fell like a feather down to the floor.

Her unkempt hair fell all over the place – over her face, her eyes, her shoulders. She frowned, gruffly muttering under her breath as she let herself out of her husband’s grip to pick it up, her eyebrows knitted together in embarrassment.

“Are you all right, Missy?” Matthew asked as he reached a hand out. “Do you need any help?”

“No, no,” she muttered as she put the flowers down and fiddled with the dull old cloth. “I am just trying to –”

The sound of ripping fabric filled the room, and Missy’s stubborn face immediately transformed into an exhausted one. “For God’s sake,” she muttered as she let it drop to the floor again, running her hands through her hair. “I have no idea how to deal with this.”

“We could buy you another one.”

“No! No…” She shook her head. “I am so sick of hiding my hair behind a bunch of rags.” She sought her daughter out, taking her tiny chubby hand and holding onto it tight in an effort not to let her own emotions take her over.

“I want to do something with my hair… I just don’t know how. I can’t do anything with my hair.” She sighed as her daughter stared at her, her eyes wide and full of wonder. Beautiful black orbs. “I never learned how.”

Alfred stared, watching her sadly. Understanding slowly. She’d been separated from any sort of community of people like herself. It reminded Alfred of himself, when he was so, so young. Left alone to wander for years within the fields, with no contact of any sort with his kind. He had to learn what he was through over people. He had to learn how to be a personification when he was discovered. How would Missy be any different?

But she never found herself a community of her own, all that she had was the people in this house. And yes, it was a loving family, and yes, she always said she felt at home. But how could she ever know how to manage all the big little things like hair care and codes of conduct without being so close to any people like herself to learn them from?

“There are no traditions I can learn from.” She said so sadly to whoever would listen, and the whole room was there to pay her heed. “The small tips? The little tricks? Where are they? I have none. How can I teach my daughter anything,” and her breath hitched, “when I have none?”

She was trying so hard not to, but she was about to cry. That was until David put his hand on her shoulder, and then on her cheek.

“Let us make some then.” He asserted, holding Deborah up in his arms so she could rest her little forehead onto his smiling cheek. “I grew up with many girls around, remember. I saw how a young woman could have her hair done in many different ways. And a sister even taught me a few things.”

Missy stared at him for a moment, smirking a bit before she scoffed and finally said, “which one taught you? The one who miraculously survived tuberculosis – and I still don’t believe that – or the one who would always get rose colds out of nowhere and suffered from food poisoning all the time?”

David laughed, shaking his head, amused. “Both! I would watch as they would braid each other’s beautiful long hair. I assume I will be able to remember some things. Maybe I could show you. Then we could extrapolate from there.” He put Deborah down, who couldn’t care less for their conversation and waddled off to tug at Matthew’s pants and play with him. “And I wasn’t lying about my sister.”

“Sure thing, Davie.”

“No, I am serious! She truly did survive tuberculosis… It was the very event that brought our family closer to God.”

Missy laughed at him. But she was smiling brightly again, and that was what mattered. “Sure.”

“Anyway,” David waved his hands about, clearly disliking the feeling of being doubted. "I know you, Miz. You're intelligent, you're innovative. You can make something beautiful out of this. I know you are able to do it!” Then he gestured to their daughter, who was now being chased around Alfred on the floor by Matthew. “You can do this for her, and for yourself too."

Needless to say, she was wooed. They ended up deciding on taking a nice romantic walk around the house, planning to visit the stable and use the ropes for practice and maybe even give Peggy some braids.

The two boys offered to babysit the cute and pretty little prophetess Deborah as they prepared to take their leave. Alfred took her hands and began rocking her slowly from side to side in a rhythmic fashion of dance as she giggled and sung some gibberish song.

“Why you out of work, anyway?” He heard Missy yap at David just before they left. “Why’d you come home so early?”

“Because…” He said as he followed her out the door. “I couldn’t get this cabinet right.”

“Ohhh… so you gave up on it?” She teased as the boys lost sight of them to the household walls. “Did you panic over it?”

“No! Well… I did grow anxious. However, I thought I could reason with myself enough and I decided to return home and sleep on the matter. Now I may return to work tomorrow with some fresh eyes. I simply needed some time at home to give myself a new perspective.”

“Ahh,” the echoes of her voice could still only just faintly be heard within the house. “So you did give up on it! But _only_ just for today, though. Back to work tomorrow.”

There was a singular sigh of resignation before they finally fell out of earshot. “Yes, I suppose I did.”

Matthew shot Alfred yet another amused glance as he took one of Debby’s hands in his own, and they formed a little circle as they continued to dance and sing silly nonsense with each other, while cautious of Alfred’s pains.

It was interesting, getting to know David over the years. At first glance, back when he met him, Alfred thought he was the most tranquil and laidback man in the whole world. But now he knew him better, he could note the poor man had far more nerves than one could ever see coming. He wondered how many more of his men were out there like that as well, but simply far too frightened and unwilling to show it.

For once in his life, Alfred was glad he still appeared to be a child despite his transcendent age. At least he still had some remnants of freedom left to cry without the fear of being judged. The Lord only knew how Arthur could cope with the lot of it as such a young empire.

As they danced, Alfred noticed the flowers still sprawled out on the table. He broke off from the group to put them in a vase of water before Debby approached him and began tugging at his pants. She stared at the flowers, so bright and colorful and full of wondrous scents.

Alfred grinned as he took out a small soft yellow one and showed it to her. “Would you like one?” He asked.

“Yes please! Yes please!” She bopped up and down as she giggled.

He handed it to her, and she squealed as she grabbed onto it, stuffing it into her face to smell it as Alfred laughed.

She then pulled away and stumbled back in a fit of sneezing, and Matthew was there to hold her and keep her from falling.

“Ohp!” Matthew smiled. “She’s got a rose cold.”

“Didn’t David say something about his sister getting rose colds too?”

“Yeah… It must run in the family.” He then turned to the space next to him, as if listening to something that was not there. “Yes, I think so too.”

Alfred looked at him strangely, snickering at him before taunting, “careful, Matthew. If the wrong people catch ya talking to the spirits like that then they might…” He leaned into him and grabbed at his clothes, “getchya!”

“Alfred!” He laughed as he tried to push him off, but it was too late. He had already fallen flat onto the ground, and Debby was already climbing all over him like an explorer did a mountain. “I’m not talk– OH! Don’t squish my stomach!” He wheezed. “I’m not talking to any spirits!”

“How could I believe that now?” Alfred asked from above. “I just saw you speaking to the air! You’re a witch,” he sneered. Of course, he was kidding. Yet Matthew for some reason seemed so affronted by such accusations. Was… was he all right?

“Matt-Matt?” Debby asked, getting off him and poking at his checks, trying to force his mouth into smile again.

“I didn’t appreciate that, Alfred.” He said sadly, getting up as he took Deborah into his arms. “Kuma was my only friend I had to talk to for a long time. He was my everything.”

Alfred blinked. “Kuma?”

Matthew sighed. “My…” He looked at the blank space for so long, seemingly so pained to struggle and say the next word. “ _Imaginary_ …” He sighed again, his voice so heavy and sorrowful. “My _imaginary_ friend. He’s my pet big white bear... Last year his species received a proper name, y’know. He’s called a ‘polar bear’ now.” He frowned, not breaking eye contact with that blank space. “He’s always been there for me, even at times when I felt so alone. I’ve known him longer than I’ve known myself.”

Alfred listened. It sounded so strange, but he still listened. Then he smiled, amused by a sudden thought. It seemed like both Alfred and Matthew relied on their own personal bear best friends to be their emotional crutches. So they really were twins after all – even if they were from different fathers.

Matthew shook his head, finally looking straight at Alfred. “I don’t expect you to respect it,” he whispered sadly, almost knowingly with how his brother was like. He was so nervous to reveal such a thing, and it broke Alfred’s heart.

“No, no.” He quickly reassured him. “I don’t understand, I really don’t. But I will still respect it if you say so because umm… it’s clear that, well, that _he_ means a lot to you.”

That made Matthew smile, and his eyes grew glassy as he looked off to the side and shared his joy with the air. “Thank you,” he whispered.

Deborah looked up at him, rejoicing as she noticed his loving smile. “Ya! Ya!” She cried, excited to see Matthew so happy.

She squirmed until Matthew let her down, and she waddled over to her toys, picking up a couple carved timber horses and wooden knights and taking them back to the two boys.

“Neigh!” She said as she forcefully pressed one of the horses into Matthew’s hands. “Play.”

Alfred laughed, catching on as he slowly sat himself down on the ground to play, wincing as he felt a few cracks in his bones and a sore throb over his back. Deborah gave him a wooden solider to play with. It reminded him of another toy solider he was once given. He wondered where it was, probably lost in some storage room in a house somewhere south. He smiled faintly as he turned the wooden figure around in his hands.

It was copped all sharp and angular. Newly made and novicely cut; he could tell Missy made it. The horse in Matthew’s hands, however, was feminine, delicate and finely carved with precise artistry. The mane had luscious locks, reminding him much of Arthur’s handwriting. David must’ve made that one. He did a good job. They both did.

But Alfred hated the feeling of wood against his hands nowadays. It was difficult to deal with – so many tools and trinkets were made of wood. He supposed it was a curse, a final scar he was left with to make him never forget. He sighed as he put the solder-knight down, letting him bravely face away from Deborah with his sword out, protecting her.

He smiled brightly. He refused to sour the moment. “They are very strong horsies and knights, aren’t they?” He said as Matthew put his horse down next to Alfred’s solider.

“And they are here to guard you, Miss Debby!” Mattie tickled her.

“Wow! It is an honor to serve you, Mistress Debby,” Alfred said in a muffled voice as he spoke as the solider.

She giggled in response, nodding her head. “I am Queen!”

Haha, yes! She was Queen! Queen bee of the castle! He wondered how she imagined her kingdom, and if the people who were her subjects lived life just as happily as she did.

“Who are you Queen of, Debby?” Alfred asked.

“Of me!” She said simply. “I’m Queen! Only for me.” And just like that… with a few stumbling words. And the words of a very young child, at that. It ignited something passionate within Alfred’s heart. He imagined what a world would be like where everyone was their own king or queen. He grinned brightly as he looked away.

Imagine that sort of world. Where you were subject only to yourself, not some king from a faraway place. He liked the thought of that. He liked the thought of that very much.

.

.

Alfred decided he needed some fresh air. Matthew scolded him, demanding he made certain he took every step with caution and he kept himself at a slow pace. Yes, yes. He agreed to it, so Matthew let him go. Damn nagging little boy.

He was in the mood to buy some stuff. Go to the markets, buy some cheese. Cheese always made him happy. It was something he needed, something happy to get him through the pain of civil war status.

As he walked around the outskirts of the busy market, he noticed a strange man. He paused. The man seemed to be staring at him. He shivered a bit before continuing on his way, refusing to be bothered.

He again thought of what Deborah had said. He wondered how a government could work without a king. The Romans somehow did it for a bit. And the Greeks. He wondered how the people could be kept together in their duties for each other, especially if they felt they only had to serve themselves.

How would it be done? Through religion? Traditions? He didn’t have any traditions to make anything really special yet… But he supposed that many of his people believed in God, so he had that going for him.

He strolled past the alleyways, peering over the market stalls to find where the dairy farmers were. There was a nice chubby lady and her lovely eligible daughter, they would always be there to serve the best cheeses. They would chat every now and again. The young lady’d only just got engaged. He wondered where they were…

He felt a strange chill before spinning on his heels, watching with beady eyes for the origin of that stare he so surely felt. He gulped. Where was that man? He was gone. How strange.

He turned around again to continue walking before he felt a stranger’s hands wrap over his mouth from behind as the human tried to tug him into the ally. Alfred lashed out, using his supernatural strength to fling him over his head and smack straight into the ground before him before he yelped and backed away.

He tried his best to run away, panting hard as he stumbled from his sickness. He tripped over after a burst of pain shot through his legs, and he cowered in fear as he watched the man stand over him. He wondered if this was how Matthew felt, interrogated over his dear polar bear.

The man continued to stare at him with his stupid ass mustache. “Monsieur Bonnefoy has been looking for you,” he said in some heavy accent. “But have no fear, he always tracks down whomever he wants.”

Alfred continued to glower at him, silent and thinking hard. That name rung some bell in his head. This must be one of France’s infamous henchmen Arthur always seemed to be protesting. He narrowed his eyes at him as the stranger knelt on his knees and showed him a paper full of dates.

“If you want contact with him…” He forced the paper into Alfred’s hands, who was still moping grumpy and somewhat frightened on the ground. “This is a list of all the times he will be visiting this grimy land of yours.” He said as he flicked some dirt off his hand. These Frenchmen just didn’t hold back, did they?

Alfred thought he had no choice, so he sucked it up and read the list. But then he squawked, stunned by what he saw. “Why is he coming over so frequently?”

“That is for you to discover by his words, and not mine.”

“Oh God,” he whined as he glared up at him. He felt so humiliated, it almost cured his fears. “How did you find me?”

“Oh, please. France has been to this house before. Once he noticed you were no longer present in North Carolina he simply checked here, and _voilà_ … _il n'y a aucune surprise de ce côté_.”

Alfred frowned. He couldn’t speak French that well. And this henchman was… there was something off about him. That wirey mustache, it made him distrustful. “I… I already have an information dispatcher. I’ve got myself a new one!”

“Yes.” He dismissed him casually. “But she has a child now, _non?_ That would slow her down, _oui?"_

Alfred coughed into the dirt, struggling to prop himself up. It was true Missy didn’t work as much as she used to, but she still was certainly very much in on the game. How dare this bastard stranger insult her. But most of all… “How do… how do you know that?”

“Oh,” the man chuckled for a good while as Alfred finally managed to stand on his own two feet. He didn’t want anything to do with this man. He brushed off the dirt on his clothes as he began stumbling away, wallowing in pain - and to his great relief his crazy attacker let him leave. But not before he got in his final, lasting, _burning_ words.

“ _Mon lapin_ , there is much for you to learn about nationhood… and the world of espionage!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did she skip a whole year? *gasp* Yes she did...
> 
> Did you see what I did there? Alfred called them Acts 'intolerable'... haha, get it? Cause he's speaking of the 'Intolerable Acts'. Ha, I think I'm so funny.  
> If you're interested in learning more I encourage you to! They really do perfectly show why the colonists were so mad...
> 
> Now, the Quartering Act before 1774 kinda failed because colonial legislatures mostly refused to enact it. Earlier on within the fanfic, however, I did let a few corrupt men slip through the cracks and still harass Matthew about billeting them in Al's New England house just to showcase the social and emotional mood regarding how the people felt about rapidly intensifying British rule.  
> However, after 1774, it became much, much more strict and well enforced. This really, really bothered the Colonists, and yes, it did make many young women very nervous to go outside at times, according to the comments of men like British Commander Lord Rawdon.
> 
> Funny enough, by April 18/19, 1775, [the Battles of Lexington and Concord](https://www.history.com/topics/american-revolution/battles-of-lexington-and-concord#:~:text=The%20Battles%20of%20Lexington%20and%20Concord%2C%20fought%20on%20April%2019,War%20\(1775%2D83\).&text=On%20the%20night%20of%20April,to%20seize%20an%20arms%20cache.) had begun. The conflict was not yet called a revolution officially, still just seen as a 'rebellion'. The people of both America and the UK saw it all as a 'civil war' conflict all the way up until 1776 and the declaration of independence, then it finally became a war between two nations.
> 
> Missy is suffering from 'cultural diaspora', a situation where colonization strips a person of feeling like they belong to a community of their own, deeply upsetting their identity. Out of fear of being subject to 'alterity', many people engage in the mimicry of cultures around them, but that often leads to a personal loss in things like knowing how to do your own hair w/ the practicality of your cultural traditions. It's one of the main reasons why colonization and ethnocentrism is so devastating, and why preserving culture is so important. If you are interested, you can [access LiJen Huang's blog to view some beautifully created cards made to describe some post-colonial key-words in relation to these scenarios.](http://lijenhuang.blogspot.com/2010/06/post-colonialism-cards.html)
> 
> Deborah here gets 'rose colds', that of course is an outdated term. Nowadays it is defined as 'hayfever'. The original term comes from the fact that people would notice they got ‘colds’ around rose gardens for some odd reason until modern medicine found out why... [Here's a timeline history of allergies from 1565 to 1967 by 'the Achoo!Blog' if you're interested!](https://www.achooallergy.com/blog/learning/a-history-of-allergies-part-three-the-16th-century-to-the-20th-century/)
> 
> Oh! And Polar bears were only identified and named by Europeans in the year 1774! Just in time to write this! yay
> 
> I like the idea that all nations are born from either two nations or a nation and a human. I also headcanon Alfred and Matthew being twins from heteropaternal superfecundation [fertilization from two separate encounters]. How they would be aware of that; I’m going to blame that on some supernatural intuition, idk.
> 
> This is also important: The concept individualism back when Alfred starts flirting with is very different to what its understood as today. When it first emerged in American thought, it was based more on the heavily Christianized concept of ‘human dignity’ and ‘the right to life’ rather than the more toxic ‘I can do whatever I want and you can’t stop me’ mentality. Historical context is extremely important here, because while early America did believe in some concept of individual liberty, it was still very much overshadowed by religious expectations, societal duties, and the general belief that you should stay in your caste and know your place. [Lmao that’s why whenever I try to play Civilization V with George Washington as an ai he always auto picks ‘duty’ and ‘autocracy’ cause he’s programmed that way and it’s kinda historically accurate based on early American ideals heavily set around duty but I hate it ; ^ ; !!]  
> Anyway, while some of this hierarchy was relaxed in more positive ways, eg. more rights for women and minorities, it's also lost sight of original cultural contexts providing very important safety nets to served and protect the collective American community. Eg. now people believing the rights of an individual to harm can trump the rights of a community's safety. ʘ‿ʘ
> 
> Thanks for reading. Bye-bye! (＾ω＾)//"  
> Oh, and on a very final note, if you’re scared of angst and everything going to shit then I’d really advise you to stop reading now...


	23. The year was 1775

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!! TW for descriptions of **severe** malady.

“Your hair looks lovely today, Mrs Williams,” Alfred said as he sat up in his bed, watching her beam as she waltzed into his and Arthur’s room. He leaned away to cough a few times, still so sickly from these feelings of civil war, as Arthur called it. It was awful being bedridden; he felt like it rendered him useless. But at least he could still compliment his friends on their own journeys whenever they came in to visit him.

She took great pride in her long wondrous hair, now. Sometimes it was braided, sometimes dressed in other styles, but always craftily interwoven with brightly colored fabrics that worked to enhance her natural beauty rather than hide it all away.

Every now and again she’d make an awkward mistake, naturally. The only things she could use were her husband’s memories and her own expertise to help fix any rifts in her newfound methods, after all.

But at least she was far, far more confident as of recently, and so much more prideful in her talents. And that all came down to her own ability to adapt and rise up again after losing so much.

Although, most of all, her pride was in the new way that Deborah would look at her. The dear child would gaze at her for all eternity if she could, admiring her dearest mama as if heaven were a hive, she the queen bee, and her hair – the finishing, final touch – was her almighty crown.

“Thank you, Alfred.” She smiled as she placed a tray of deliciously cooked Johnny cakes down on his lap.

“Oh!” He blinked in shock right before his mouth began to water. It smelled wonderful, and he was always excited by the sight of food, but somehow eating in bed suddenly made him feel like such a massive burden. “Did you make this for me?”

“That’s why it’s on your lap, boy,” she laughed at him, putting her hands on her hips.

“Oh..” It looked so delicious… He couldn’t wait to eat it. “But you didn’t have to make it for me.” He cringed. He should have said thank you or something. But he couldn’t help it; he wished he could’ve helped make it himself. He needed to do something with himself, it was driving him mad. He really did feel like a burden.

“Nonsense. You’re sick! Besides, I only helped out a smidge,” she winked, smirking playfully. “Matthew made most of it, but I insisted on taking it in to you so I could get all the flattery.”

Alfred didn’t know whether to gasp or laugh before his body chose to do both. “Missy!” He cried before the door behind her was pushed open wider.

Matthew burst into the room, still wearing his cooking clothes, and his face was dead serious, bright red and huffy. “Arthur’s back,” he said quickly as David walked in after him. They both looked exceptionally worried. “He wants us all to listen.”

Arthur followed in quickly, and Alfred immediately sat himself more straight and upright, alert in posture. Arthur was coughing a bit. The bitter feelings of open battlefields were beginning to affect him too. He shared a sad look with Alfred – only for a moment – before his eyes softened with tenderness. Alfred nodded wordlessly. He understood. All this external suffering had put a pause to their tense arguments.

In some twisted way, Alfred enjoyed that he wasn’t going through this pain alone. Or maybe that wasn’t the right way to put it; he appreciated the fact that he was in no way lonely.

There was also a sense of grief, however. Every time Alfred would look at Arthur, he would regret his feelings. The more pain he saw his empire in, the more he cursed the fact it was their fate to feel in such a way.

Although, the pain wasn’t the reason why Arthur was here right now. Nor was it why he called this sudden… gathering. This meeting. No, there was something else on his mind that was urgent for him to share. Something very serious. Alfred could see it in the uncertain flicker in his eyes.

“There has been another smallpox outbreak,” he announced as properly as he could, and Alfred felt his heart stop.

Matthew let out an abrupt, low guttural sound he’d never heard before in his life. “Oh no,” he cried as he hid his face behind his hands. “Not again!”

“Do you know the infection rate?” David asked immediately. “How serious do you think it is?”

Arthur shook his head. “I do not know the answer to that. It was first detected in Boston. I know nothing other than the gossip, that one in six who are infected are expected to per–”

“Oh my God!”

Arthur shook his head again. “L-look. The markets we go to… we cannot risk going to them again. They are mixed markets; they are far too busy. They sell blankets and clothing alongside their beans and maize, and some people say fabrics can carry plague. We cannot risk it.”

“But where will we get our milk, our butter, then?” Missy asked. “Our fish, our clothes? Our eggs when our own chickens ain’t serving us well? Where do we go?”

Arthur sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Look. We must switch to another place more safe. I say we switch to the private markets down the other road.”

“The private markets?” Alfred asked. “Aren’t they really expensive?”

“Yes. Because most of the products they sell are wheat-based only.”

Alfred took in a deep, longing breath. He hadn’t had flour in ages. It was far too expensive to buy after being shipped all the way to their part of the province. The thought of having anything with wheat again after so long was unreal.

“Is that why that place is so expensive?” Matthew asked, slowly understanding. “Because they only sell wheat imports?”

“Can we even afford that?”

Arthur sighed again. “Yes, and yes. Keep in mind they also sell fish and other land meats. Our diets may have to change, but we will not be trapped with only one foodstuff.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “We will also have to adjust our schedules to suit our new tasks, as I will be the only one allowed in, given my appearance of wealth and status and…” He looked at Missy, and she looked away, “and my skin complexion.”

“Must we really lower ourselves to this?” David said as he crossed his arms. But it was clear he knew that was their only option.

“That’s a lot of things we have to adjust,” Missy nodded, deep in thought. “Household expenditure will become very tight. But I see why. We must keep this household safe.” She nodded again, this time in acceptance. “I’ll miss our little rotations where we’d take turns going to the markets, however.”

Matthew sighed as he began untying his apron from his back, looking at Alfred with a small smile. “You know how this will affect you the most, Alfred?” He giggled a little at his tiny attempt at comedy, folding up the apron in his arms. “No more johnnycakes for you, at least in the way we usually make them.”

Alfred whined, desperately upset as Arthur muttered bitterly, “I am so sick of maize, anyway.”

A little sound of delight was then heard from outside the room and down the hall. Oh, Alfred smiled. Deborah was awake.

“Mama!” She cried out, singing a happy tune. “Mama! Come here!”

Missy laughed, breaking the ice felt all around the room at once. She walked out of the room, calling back out to her baby that she was coming, and Alfred couldn’t help but laugh. He took a big bite out of his deliciously maize-based meal for maybe one of the last times in a very long while.

This whole ordeal had made no difference to that little girl at all.

.

.

It took a few days for them to finally run out of maize and start using wheat. But after those few long days, Alfred found himself waking up so early in the morning to both Matthew and David bringing in the best new foods they’ve made and had to offer.

Matthew carried the tray in all by himself, proud and happy to finally be the one showing off his own hard work. David stood behind him, guiding him and ensuring he kept the tray stable while also balancing his sleeping daughter who rested on his shoulder.

Whoo boy, it was a whole parade of people in Alfred and Arthur’s room this morning! It reminded him of a busy seaside port.

“We made you breakfast to get better,” Mattie said, soft and gentle in tone yet still bright and cherry in his own special way.

“Careful, Matthew,” David interposed with a stern voice. “You’re about to spill it.” He reached out just in time to stop one of the hot cups of soup from tipping over onto the small boy.

Alfred leaned up, stretching his arms as he giggled at them. "That is very kind. From both of you."

"Yes, well… Missy would usually love to do this for you. She was planning for it; she even prepared half the food here last night, saying something about earning her own compliments...” David chuckled, glancing at his baby. She made a slight little buzzing sound as she slept – just like a little bee. “However, after such a long day with this little one, she couldn’t help but sleep in.” His eyes lit up, and he had a strange entranced look on his face as he sighed, content. "I couldn’t bring it upon myself to wake her.”

Mattie put the tray down over Alfred’s legs before he took a couple snacks off the top for himself. “We couldn’t leave it out there, though. Because that only left Arthur free to add on some stuff and prepare your breakfast in the kitchen, and we couldn’t have that, could we?” He joked.

“Yeah,” Alfred smirked as he picked up a spoon and dipped it into the soup. “Do you know when he’s coming in?”

“Right about now,” Arthur said as he suddenly appeared at the door, shooting Matthew a strange look before paying attentive heed to Alfred. “How are you feeling?”

“About twice as bad as you are,” he replied with a cheeky grin, watching Matthew grow redder and redder by the second before he quickly scurried out of the room.

He tried moving the tray off his legs to give Arthur a better greeting, to be more lively in his welcome, but the muscles in his arms were too cramped, and they suddenly locked up. He hissed out in pain as he let the tray go, some of the soup spilling out along the way. Ugg, so much for Mattie being careful with it.

Arthur approached him swiftly, picking it up for him and moving it out the way. “Would you like for me to come at a different time?” He asked as he looked at David for a reference. “It is rather early, and you have just received some food.”

“No,” Alfred shook his head adamantly. “I… I’d really like you to help me out now.” He was in so much pain, and he was so tired of it. He needed those muscle exercises Arthur knew so well right now. “I just… I just want the bad guys to give in!” He cried out. He was so sick of it. He wanted it to end.

“Have no fear, dear Jones boy,” Arthur said soothingly, resting a hand on Alfred’s shoulder. For a split-second, Alfred thought he could see that nationhood glow in his eyes that was only obtainable for a country back in his own homeland. The power behind that certainty, it made his muscles feel relaxed already. “This will all be subdued sooner or later. Eventually, everything will be all right.”

“That’s good to hear,” David said sternly as Deborah began to stir in his arms. He took that as his cue to leave, and he excused himself, saying, “violence is not something I intend for my child to grow up with.”

Arthur helped Alfred stand. His legs wobbled as if he were a newborn fowl, and he relied entirely on Arthur’s support, but he could still stand. So that was a plus. He stumbled as Arthur guided him around the room, stretching his muscles and making him lunge and twist and even hop for a little bit. Until eventually his confidence began to pick up.

“I have been thinking,” Arthur said after yet another lap where Alfred could almost walk on his own. “I need to get into contact with two certain men who,” he chuckled, “I wouldn’t even say ‘work’ for the King. No, instead they work for me.” He smiled broadly, the pride of a royal lion and the strength of a great bear.

“I have only recently discovered their whereabouts, thanks to Missy. They reside in two separate cities. One of them I know is in Annapolis. That is the perfect location for gathering any information we may need that comes straight from the Crown. It is a vital point of entry for any outsiders to come in with any wish of naval trade or immigration. I say, that man will help us very much.”

Alfred beamed, excited by the news. “Really?”

“Yes, I believe so,” Arthur’s boastful smile softened. “They may even have the power to act as our messengers if we are careful enough not to get caught. They may have the power to change things… To demand more say for these people; that is the very thing you desire. Yes, Alfred?”

Alfred agreed, overtly eager. “Yes, that’s right!”

Arthur nodded. “Yes, well. Maybe if we work to achieve this, then this small little rebellion may be cut short, and then all this pain we feel may be subdued.”

Alfred let out a little sound of unabashed joy. “Yes, that is all I’ve ever asked! Give these people their say.”

Arthur bowed his head, accepting his reply and returning back to checking his joints. “Well, you have no signs of improvement,” he said as he inspected the muscles in Alfred’s forearm. “However, you show no signs of deterioration either. So, all is well, I suppose.”

“How are we gonna get into contact with these men?” Alfred asked avidly. “I know we can’t send these men any letters in case any curious eyes intercept them and discover their origins. Not after those new laws that were imposed, no way! It's too risky now." He gestured at the room all around them. "We’ll be found out. The only safe way to speak to them is to meet them in person.”

Arthur laughed. “In the middle of a smallpox outbreak?”

“We can’t get sick from human illnesses.”

“They do not know that. Besides, they would still be wary of seeing anyone so far up north compared to themselves…” But then he paused, deep in thought. He furrowed his brows, and pursed his lips. “Or maybe… That Annapolis lad is quite a jumpy one, but that other man… He is in Philadelphia.” Arthur nodded his head. “Yes! He should be much more accustomed to it by now. He might be still willing to see us...”

Alfred grinned at him gratefully. “Oh, yeah!” He could have danced if he had the energy. Instead he settled on holding Arthur’s hands within his own and shaking them so frantically. “That sounds wonderful!” He cheered, and Arthur laughed at his hysterics.

“Why, yes.” Arthur agreed. “The only way peace may see the light of day on this continent now is to allow for these people to have a little more self-assertion. Any denial of such a thing will risk your loyalty to me,” Arthur smirked at him, “and we cannot allow such a thing, now can we?”

Alfred giggled in his arms as he shook his head. “No.”

“Then you will be very satisfied. You will be glad to hear it. With the new bills I will propose, the people shall get those very things they wish for, and in turn so will you. Then this can all be put to rest; it can all be over. You shall remain loyal, and then we shall strive to live together forever, yet again.”

Alfred vocally approved, yawning as he slowly let his mind wander. His daily exercise wore him out far too quickly for a body at his age, but he couldn’t help but feel so tired from all the aching pains and surprise bruises he’d been subjected to. “I’d like that,” he yawned again. “I’d like that very much…”

“Good.” Arthur said as he helped guide him back into bed.

Alfred was very happy. He knew his meditations had meant something; he knew there was hope for change! All it took was a couple of years for Arthur to warm up to the idea, and here he was, taking his side! They would work together, and be together forever.

He grinned brightly as he leaned back into his pillow, proud of his people and self-satisfied with himself. But then when he locked eyes with Arthur, he had no choice but to shed his smugness for genuine joy. His great bear Magna Arthur was smiling back at him. And oh… oh boy, that meant the entire world to him.

“Oh this lot,” Arthur broke his gaze first as he began his complaining with a comedic twinge. “These people… so uncouth and unruly.” He smirked as he picked up some of the food from Alfred’s tray, observing them in his hands. “Causing all of this trouble for us… I think I very well rightfully deserve my very own bite of this.” He chuckled delightfully as he bit into the sweet treat.

“Yeah,” Alfred cackled. His people certainly were an unruly type, but he wouldn’t have it any other way. Rather, he chose to tease Arthur instead. “You could call us all ‘unlicked cubs’ over here in the New World, if you wanted to.”

Arthur turned his head to look straight at him, shocked, before he looked away, shook his head and laughed breathlessly. “Well, God blind me.” He couldn’t help but chuckle. “That phrase has been out of date for a good few years now.” He shook his head again, laughing at Alfred. “Are you asking for it to come back?”

Alfred shrugged. “I don’t know.” He said honestly. “I was just thinking of it... You reminded me of it.”

They watched each other silently for a moment. It was both peaceful and yet… it was so quiet Alfred could hear their very breathing, and suddenly he became very acutely aware of it. Eventually Arthur was the one to shift, and he picked up the tray, stood and began to head out.

“I should go down and put all these uneaten ones into the storage before they stale,” he explained himself quickly before Alfred nodded, and he left.

For a few minutes, Alfred was left alone to ponder all that had been said to him before Matthew popped his head in from around the corner.

“Is… Is he gone yet?” He whispered nervously as he slowly crept into the room. Oh dear, so that poor kitchen comment had really gotten to his head.

Alfred raised an eyebrow. “Y’know, I think he’d outta forgiven you by now.”

“Oh,” Matthew hushed him before creeping into the bed and sitting right beside him. “You never know, you never know…”

Alfred rolled his eyes. “So,” he began with a little hum, wondering what to say. “How’s Kuma going?”

Matthew’s face immediately lit up, and all his nerves disappeared. “Oh! He is doing very well, thank you.”

Alfred yawned as he nodded. “And how about you?”

Matthew looked at him, astounded. “Me? I’m completely fine. It’s _you_ I’d be asking about! You’re all sick! You can’t even go on walks with me anymore…” He sighed, digging a hand into one of his pockets, and pulled out a small shiny black thing.

“Here,” he said, handing it to Alfred. “I found this outside the other day. Near all those rocky hills. I thought you’d like it.”

Alfred looked down, and gasped with amazement over how sparkly and crystal-like this strange shiny black rock really was. It looked as if a bunch of black shiny cubes have merged in a moment of heat and were fused together by a blacksmith, but no. This was all done by nature. By God. It was so nice to observe, and to feel against his fingers as he let them dance and twirl around with it.

He nodded as he looked up, smiling back at Matthew. “I do… I do like it. Very much. Thank you.”

“Do you know its name?” Mattie asked as he tilted his head. “I couldn’t identify it based on looking at it alone.”

“Ha,” Alfred smirked as he pondered a cheeky answer. “It’s a lump of coal,” he finally replied cruelly, and with a massive cocky grin. “So be careful Mattie. It might burn the house down!”

Matthew gasped, angry, trying to take the rock back off him and keep it for himself. “No!” He argued, aggrieved and annoyed. “No, no! That… that’s not even how it works! Coal operates as a fuel for fire, not even as a lighter, you –”

“Alright, alright!” Alfred laughed again. “I was just messing with you…” He twisted and turned the rock in his hand. He had no clue where he could even begin to pinpoint its name. “I can’t identify it either.”

“Oh… Well so much for knowing your own geography, Alfred.”

“Hey, you couldn’t identify it either.”

Matthew spluttered. “Wa… Wha…” He pulled at his hair with his hands. “We’re not even at my house! This is your geography!”

Matthew rambled on for a bit more, but Alfred had stopped listening, already so exhausted. Eventually the conversation turned to a more wistful topic, though, and Alfred returned his attention to him. After a while, they found themselves discussing the beauty not only of lovely home-found rocks but also the long line of precious gemstones they’d probably never even get to see.

“I’ve only ever seen drawings of it. And I’ve only ever read descriptions about it in literature. But no, I’ve never seen one… Have you?”

“I don’t know,” Alfred said, shaking his head. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a sapphire either. But I’ve seen an emerald once. Only once, though. And that was while I was over in Europe.”

Matthew sighed longingly. “Oh, how lucky... umm, that you got to see an emerald, I mean…”

“Yeah, I understand.” Alfred smiled. “And you’re right. I was lucky to see it.”

“I’ve only ever read about those in books too. How… How did it look in real life?”

“Oh…” Alfred sighed, remembering it very well. “It was beautiful.” He said simply. “It shimmered a rich and wondrous green… It shone far brighter than any tree could ever dream of, even in the break of a perfect dawn with morning dew still on every leaf. Y’know, it was the exact same color as Arthur’s eyes.” He said excitedly just before he realized what he had done, and then he sighed, angry with himself for slipping up so easily. Yet again. In front of another.

At least Matthew had the courtesy to laugh it off, however. Matthew, how kind he had been to him over these past few weeks. Giving him a beautiful rock as a gift. Making his food. Coming in to give him company. Matthew had done a lot for him.

“How come you’ve been doing so much for me lately?” He asked, suddenly suspicious.

Matthew could tell exactly what he was thinking, and he didn’t appreciate it at all. He narrowed his eyes angrily. “Because I care about you, you stupid brother.” He shoved him over, back into the pillow. “You can’t even get out to feed yourself, so somebody else has to do it.” He huffed. “So I’ll do it.”

Alfred laughed at him, shaking his head as he shoved him off. “You’re too mature for your age.” He complained. “For taking care of me too much.”

Matthew rolled his eyes. “Well, you’re too much like a child.”

“Oi! You can’t say that! You’re the one giving me rocks from outside as presents. How immature is that?”

Matthew stammered yet again. “How can you even call me immature? You were the one calling me far _too_ mature in the first place! Besides, you _like_ the rocks I give you!”

Alfred just merely laughed at him. Oh his dear Matthew, the personification of Canada. If he ever were to part from his dear little twin, it would surely be the end of his world.

The two boys eventually calmed down, and they found their fate to be sleeping quite peacefully on each other’s shoulders for the rest of the day.

.

.

“Alfred…”

“Matthew… up.”

“Alfred!”

Alfred’s eyes snapped open as he shot up, awake to the sight of Missy leaning over and waving her hand in front of his face.

“Arthur wanted to invite you for some tea with us before nightfall,” she said as she snapped her fingers in front of Matthew. “Everyone else is already down there, together.”

Mattie opened his eyes and groaned as he slowly stretched his arms out. “Yeah?” He said as he rubbed his eyes and got out of bed.

“I’ll help him. You go,” she ordered, and he followed her instructions and saw himself out, still yawning as he went on ahead of them.

She reached out for Alfred’s hand, but then she paused. “I still don’t know how I can carry you. You have supernatural strength, yes? Won’t you drag me down to the ground with you?”

Alfred thought for a moment before he took her hand. “I think it has something to do with applied force and pressure more than gravity itself,” he said as he leaned on her support to stand. His face then broke out into a smile.

“So you were right,” she hummed, intrigued as she could successfully help by holding him up.

“Yeah,” he said sheepishly while they started walking – albeit very slowly. He was just so silently grateful that he was right.

“So how are your meditations going?”

“Oh, y’know. As hectic as ever.”

An amused tsk. “People are still rowdy, huh?”

“Yep.”

She laughed, pausing for a moment before digging into one of the pockets in her dress. “Here,” she said all hushed as he held out an unopened envelope. “You’ve got another letter from that French country.”

Alfred gave her an unimpressed look as he took it from her, saying his sarcastic thanks before opening it. He read through it quickly, something about travel. Something about New York. Something about Philadelphia. Then something about Newport in Rhode Island.

“He’s saying something about some ‘great big surprise’ for me,” Alfred said as he put down the letter and rolled his eyes, laughing at him. “Something about a surprise guest.” He raised an eyebrow. “Y’have any idea who that might be?”

Missy shook her head. “Nah, I have no idea who that would be. Do you have any interest in meeting him?”

Alfred rubbed at his arm and bit his lip. He’d never told anyone how exactly that fiasco at the markets went down with that creepy French henchman. He didn’t know if he could trust it.

He shook his head simply. “I… I don’t know,” he stuttered before he started coughing. God, how everything ached. “Umm… look here.” He pointed to the end of the letter, irritated. “‘We have your room waiting for when you arrive’; is that supposed to sound inviting?” He scoffed.

He looked out of the main window in his room. It was so much bigger than the lonely singular one at the Lodge. So much brighter, too. Alfred liked it that way. Whatever new room France had been planning for him, it damn well better have a window just like that. He narrowed his eyes, shaking his head. Why was he thinking that? He wasn’t actually considering the things France was saying to him, was he?

Alfred sighed, defeated. So it was true. He found it all so strange, but he was still so curious about that country. For some odd Godforsaken reason.

He turned to Missy, handing the letter back to her. He didn’t want to think of it a moment longer. “Could you please burn this for me?”

She nodded as she took it, and they headed down to finally meet up with the others.

Afternoon food was sprinkled all over the table. It was a feast they could in no way afford, but they did it anyway for the sake of fun.

Little trinkets and baked sweets. Colorful creations decorated the entire engraved table. Some wonderful flour-based pastries Arthur had mastered were made centerpiece, sitting in high stacking trays waiting to be eaten. Oh, how Alfred had missed those.

Deborah giggled as she greeted him, handing him some sweetened flatbread. “From Arthur,” she said as she bounced up and down.

He blushed a lot before thanking her as Arthur laughed at him, leaning back into his chair and taking a sip of his tea. “See? We need maize no more. You have your flatbread again.”

“Yes,” Matthew chimed in with a silent smirk. “It doesn’t matter how it’s made, but if you give him flatbread then you’ll work your way into his heart.”

Alfred shot him a sharp glare before relaxing as they all laughed. He sat down, helped himself, and they all spoke for a long, long while. They chatted about everything, and about nothing as well. It was a good afternoon, fantastic, even. And then it became a good night… until.

Deborah started heaving strangely. At first it was little, but then she dropped the food she’d just tried eating, and started to stumble.

David immediately shot up, running up to her and holding onto her. He tried patting her on the back, but all that did was make her yelp, all confused and scared. Missy ran to her and fell down on her knees, holding her daughter’s face in her hands to catch a better glimpse of her.

There were horrible hives all over her skin, and she was suddenly so swollen and in pain. But far too swollen to even utter another noise. And by that point the child had collapsed.

“Oh my God!”

“Should we get a doctor?” Matthew cried.

“We can’t…” Missy wept, now cradling her baby girl. There was nothing she could do. “We can’t get no doctor! We couldn’t get a helping hand for her birth; how could we ever find someone willing enough to save her from death?”

Alfred stood back, and cried out in shock. “Wait…” He gasped. “She’s… she’s not dying, is she?”

Arthur reached out to grab his hand.

“She’s not really dying, is she?” He panicked before Arthur held him tight and hushed him quick.

“No!” David shouted, loud and angry and determined. He waved his quivering hands over Deborah, his mind racing for where to touch, what to hold down. Desperate to find out how he could help in any way he could. “How do I help you?” He sobbed at her frantically.

Minutes passed. They could do nothing to help.

And by then she was already gone.

The room fell silent.

Until Missy started speaking. Started calling out to her. To maybe get some sort of responce.

“Deborah?” She whispered, so quiet. So frightened. Her voice was far too crackled, and her heart was worn ripped up on her sleeve. “Deborah? Are you still there?”

She wasn’t.

“Deborah?” Missy cried. Tears ran down her face as she ran her fingers through her daughter’s beautiful fluffy hair. “My baby?”

No. That little girl was gone. And this made all the difference.

Missy enveloped her into a desperate, sobbing, crying heap of a hug. David followed quickly from behind. He buried his head into his wife’s neck, praying something muffled that only he could truly hear. A prayer. An act of begging. Begging for his voice to be heard. For his daughter to go to heaven.

“I don’t understand.” Matthew gasped all of a sudden. He refused to wipe his tears away, watching her as he sat down on the ground, right at her level. There was not only horror on his face but also evidence of heartbreak. “Was the food… Was it poisoned or something?”

Arthur was still standing, holding onto Alfred tightly, refusing to look at anything other than him.

“No. That would not be it,” he faltered through his heavy breaths. “Cooking usually…” A sigh. “It should remove all poisons typically associated with those crops.” He then locked eyes with the ground. He was so tense, and so stiff. Pleading for some sort of reasoning to overcome him.

“For most people, at least,” he whispered. “Maybe it was… Maybe it was the crop itself. The wheat! Sometimes certain foods can prove themselves poisonous, but only for a select few of people.” He shook his head, finally gaining enough courage to look at the lost parents instead, who stared at him dumbstruck.

“But I fail to comprehend…” He persisted in his rant, clearly not thinking over any his words too clearly. “I fail to understand… Most people like this… Usually there is some telling sign! They-they would suffer from rose colds, or… or something!”

Alfred froze. Oh _shit_. Oh God no. He closed his eyes, craving some sort of release. Some sort of escape. There was a sign.

There _was_ a sign!

Deborah would always get such terrible rose colds…

He could have helped!

He could have helped them!

He could have helped her; he could have helped Deborah!

He could have stopped this! If only he’d told them he’d known. If he reached out somehow! Made them wary… Made them cautious!

He could have done it… He could have… He could…

He opened his blurry eyes only to lock his gaze with Matthew’s. The small boy colony was shuddering so violently. He was horrified of it too. The fact he knew as well. He struggled to stand from where he was sitting, but when he did, he made a beeline straight for Alfred and his understanding and dear loving embrace.

“For… forgive me for my outburst.” Arthur suddenly spoke. His eyes were so glassy. Alfred hated to see him that way. But he had no strength to get up and help him. He didn’t think he deserved to be held in his arms either. “I was not in my right mind. I… I shall excuse myself.”

Arthur escaped from the room in a haste.

And all Alfred was left to do was allow the blame to lean entirely unto himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It hurt to write this chapter. It took me a while to get through. Hopefully it wasn't too much of a wild turn for you guys.
> 
> Anaphylaxis is an extremely fast and serious condition that has been recorded in history since antiquity, most of the time observed as a form of food poisoning.  
> The weakest form of it known today is the ‘rose cold’, now ‘hay fever’. During the 1700’s, according to the edits of F. Estelle R. Simons, MD, FRCPC [link in previous chapter under 'achooallergies'], “physicians believed seasonal allergies [i.e. rose colds] were an aristocratic disease because it was most commonly diagnosed among the upper class.” This is now known as a semi-incorrect belief. 
> 
> Yes, while the aristocracy would have less contact with lower class living conditions and thus their immune systems wouldn’t be as strong, they also had access to significantly better healthcare for their time, and they could afford to be diagnosed more frequently. Poor children would instead simply die from their allergies and then have their deaths blamed on food poisoning rather than any allergy diagnosis. Sometimes their death was even blamed on witchcraft; or even in some parts of Europe, Jewish people living on the outskirts of their kingdoms.
> 
> It’s quite frightening, especially given I nearly died of it at 2, and I myself have lost people from anaphylaxis too. But if I were in that time period, how would I have survived? I would have shared the same fate as them. That is extremely sobering to me.
> 
> The **1775-1782 smallpox epidemic** in the northern New World was so vital to history it nearly derailed the entire US revolution. First signs of it began in Boston and Quebec. It did eventually spread across the rest of the Colonies, but at this point in the story anyone from as near as Maryland would still be very wary of what was happening in New England.  
> People were so terrified of [its 1/6 fatality rates.](http://www.smplanet.com/teaching/colonialamerica/culture/smallpox#:~:text=Smallpox%20is%20a%20contagious%20disease,result%20of%20the%20deadly%20disease)  
> And this is a very hotly debated subject, [but according History.com,](https://www.history.com/news/the-rise-and-fall-of-smallpox) a few colonists seemed to have at least some idea that fabrics could carry smallpox after use by infected people. Thus, anyone in understanding would stay clear of any busy communal sales places such as a farmer’s market. However, that cut off a lot of ways for people to access certain types of food at affordable prices. Not everyone could afford it; and it made plenty of people even angrier at the British in charge of the ports, and yet weren't helping them that much at all.
> 
> If you’re interested in viewing ['Colonial Trade Routes and Goods'](https://www.nationalgeographic.org/photo/colonial-trade/) to get a better picture, Nat Geo has a kinda relevant image for it.
> 
> According to Oliver (2005) [ISBN 9780313329883], the 1700's New England diet typically relied entirely on only eating fruits and vegetables that were in season, while fish was always abundant and cheap. Wheat was also near impossible to grow, so they could only obtained and purchased through expensive imports, as Arthur has resorted into doing in the story. It would have cost them a lot, however. The best substitute for wheat would be cornmeal maize, and thus the johnnycake taught to the Colonists by certain Native Americans became a very famous dish, commonly seen as a cheap yet acceptable substitute for the expensive wheaten bread.
> 
> Those are all the notes I have for now.
> 
> Thank you for reading.


	24. The year was 1775

Deborah was dead and buried in the highest hill beside them – the closest to heaven her tiny body could get. They could do at least that for her; make the journey much shorter and easier for such a young soul finding its way into the clouds.

The house itself, however, had become so dark and gloomy. Heavy moods soaked into the curtains, and religious prayers were always heard within the hallways.

Alfred wanted to run away. He needed to leave this place that once was his home. It was too oppressive now. It was too hard. Too harsh.

She was gone. She left this world with no one to help her at all. But the only reason she was born safely into this world in the first place was because of Alfred. Because of Anne and her wonderful heart, her willingness to share her knowledge.

When Mrs Hutchinson was booted out of Massachusetts Bay, she found her way to Rhode Island. Alfred wished he went with her then. He followed her every word, why couldn’t he follow her then? Maybe he could have stopped her and her family from heading to that stupid Dutch land. Then she could have avoided that Indian raid. She and her family wouldn’t have been torn open and ripped apart by unfamiliar attackers.

She didn’t deserve that end. God knew her children didn’t either. And Deborah didn’t deserve the way she left this life as well.

Alfred thought he did, though. He meddled in so much, yet not enough. They didn’t deserve those fates, those poor humans who were all so frail and young. But Alfred did. He couldn’t die like they did, but he could still share their fate. The pain. The agony of being torn apart. Of being slain. He deserved it, not them. Not those poor fragile humans.

Things were different without her around. He was so used to the halls being filled with a child’s laughter. A little girl showing off her new hairstyles. A little girl acting as a queen and ruling over her “kingdom of me” while lining up all her wooden toys to protect her. And that little buzzing bee sound as she slept at night.

That was all replaced with weeping, long invocations and the few lonesome candles crackling their little fires for some light.

Oh God, he had to leave this place.

“Please, Arthur.” He whispered to him once. “I have to leave. I feel… I feel like it’s my fault.”

“Oh, do not insult yourself with that,” he rebuked quite curtly. “You forget where I was. I was the one to buy that flour. To introduce it into this house. To make something with it.” He shook his head in shame. “It is my fault, not yours. I should have known better.”

Alfred couldn’t believe that. “No!” He cried, yet still so silent. “No, you couldn’t have. But I… I _did_. I did and I… I, it’s all my fault! I should have –”

“Do _not_ say that to yourself.”

“She did get rose colds.” He pushed the words out of his mouth. Arthur stared at him for a moment, bearing into his soul. He tried reaching out for him, but Alfred refused his touch. He did not deserve it.

But Arthur wouldn’t stop there. He took his hand through force before Alfred could stop him, clinging on to it tight and ensuring they kept their eyes locked on each other.

“Oh,” he said softly. “I see.” He rubbed his thumb over Alfred’s dirtied palm.

He felt his lip quiver. It was such a simple response. He clung onto his clothes, and hid himself in Arthur’s chest to hide his wailing.

“You may have known that, but you did not know it was wheat that would be her end.”

Alfred shook his arms, letting them rattle against his chest.

“And neither did I,” Arthur sighed, caving in. “It will not stop the onslaught of grief in our hearts but,” and he held Alfred’s head up by his chin, “we may try and soothe our minds with this fact. There was nothing we could have done to foretell how these events would transpire.”

“Nothing,” Alfred repeated, unbelieving. There was nothing they could have done? Oh, what was the point, then? He felt… he felt so useless!

He sat up, leaning off Arthur. “I’m sorry,” he muttered as he wiped his tears. He’d become too much of a burden as of lately.

“Alfred, Matthew has already been saying that far too much as of recently. You cannot start saying it too. Do not let yourself collapse as far as he did.”

Alfred nodded, wiping at his face again. He was right. Matthew was already a such mess. It would be unfair if he were too, even more than he already was. “I just feel so useless,” he whispered.

He had to find something to do. He had to leave, he had to find a purpose for himself. Something to remind him he was in control of something. That he was able to help.

He struggled of thinking of things to do. His legs were somewhat better now, he could make do with a trip. Maybe he could even convince Arthur he’d be a good choice for doing his errands.

Yes! Those two men. The man from Annapolis! The man from Philadelphia! Arthur was too busy to travel for them. Alfred could cut his burden and see them for him!

“Arthur,” he said as some remnants of the old lights in his eyes returned. “Please. I… I have an apartment in, umm. In Pennsylvania! I can go there. I can speak to that man you were telling me about. And… and I haven’t been to that place in decades, there may be extra money in there. Precious valuables. And we need that money more than ever now!”

“Alfred…”

He became more frantic. “I’ll check out how things are going and… and then I’ll report straight back to you. I’ll come right back home! Please… Let me be of some service to you. It… It will make me feel so useful in this spiral of a mess.”

“Alfred,” Arthur stopped him. “You can barely walk.”

“I’ve been getting so much better, though! And if you’re so concerned, then I’ll take Mattie with me! We can go together!”

Alfred ran off to seek out Matthew, with Arthur calling out his name and hurrying from behind as he’d trip and stumble like a tiny babe.

“Matthew!” He cried out when he saw him, his younger brother all dressed in black. “Mattie! Come with me to Pennsylvania! There’s a man there and he might be able to help us with all this politics, and then… and then there might be money there too! And we need that money! You have to come! We have to go together.”

“Alfred!” Arthur said sternly.

Matthew paused what he was doing. He put the laundry down onto the table, and he rested his hands on the back of a chair.

“Alfred,” Arthur repeated, this time far more softly. He touched Alfred’s forearm, trying to hold him back.

Alfred didn’t realize why until he saw Matthew glowering at him.

“I’m not leaving my family in a time of mourning,” he hissed at him, and Alfred felt his own eyes widen. “Not at a time like this. How could you?”

“Mattie, I –”

“Don’t you ‘Mattie’ me…” Matthew shook his head before taking a step back. But then his harsh expression softened. “I… I’m sorry,” he whimpered, hiding his face. “I… I’m just…”

“No, I get it,” Alfred interrupted, ashamed. “That was a big thing to ask.” He should have thought it through before demanding it. But for some reason Mattie’s words still hurt him. Alfred was his family too.

Matthew shook his head, drained and depleted already. He understood far before Alfred did. “I am too much of a child,” he began. “I hate being alone without some sort of parent by my side. At times, I’ve used an imaginary bear to fill that void. But now I have humans who love me, and they are hurting. And _I_ am hurting.” He shook his head again. “I love you too, but… I cannot leave them alone in their mourning.”

Alfred nodded. “Yeah,” he whispered numbly. At last, “I understand.”

Arthur patted his back. “Come on, Alfred. You just exerted yourself far too much. You must return to bed.”

“No,” Alfred spun around to face him. “I feel fine. Don’t you see? I feel fine. I can take care of myself.”

Arthur looked at him intently, as if weighing up how he could convince him to stay so his sorry condition could heal.

“Please, Arthur.” Alfred tried again. “From here to that apartment and then to that man and then back here.” He bowed his head as a sign of subservience, yet still locked eyes with him in determination. “I can do this for us.”

Oh, Arthur knew him better than anyone. He knew there was no stopping Alfred now, and that he had lost. He smiled weakly, exhausted yet still amused and not at all expecting anything less from the boy who was also called the Thirteen Colonies.

"Very well then."

.

.

Enough time had passed for Alfred to say his proper goodbyes to Missy and David, and he said a little whisper and a prayer for Deborah as well. Arthur had prepared a carriage. He hadn’t spent lavishly on it; it was cheap and the driver remained silent. But it would do the job well of carrying him safely for the very few days it took to get to Philadelphia.

Arthur was the one to help him in the carriage, letting him rest against the several pillows stolen from their bed.

“But how are you feeling?” He inquired. “Are you sure you are fit enough to travel?”

“Yes,” Alfred said yet again. “I need to do this, Arthur. Let me feel like I can stand on my own feet. It’ll be good for me.”

Arthur nodded, trying to accept his words kindly. But Alfred could still see some irritation and a few rogue nerves lost in his eyes.

Matthew was beside him, saying goodbye as well. They both embraced him, and he gave them both a big squeeze. It was a loving bear hug.

David made his way out of the house, and he waved goodbye to him. Alfred waved at him as Matthew rejoined him, and they went inside.

Arthur spoke to the man guiding the carriage. “I trust you know your way”

“Yes, Sir.”

He accepted that reply, and he turned back to Alfred to fluff his pillows. “I trust you know your way around these lands as well.”

“Yes, Sir.” Alfred mimicked the guard.

“I am being serious, Alfred.”

“I know.” Alfred fiddled with the rock in his hands. He’d painted parts white, and made it look like a set of piano keys. It reminded him of his old piano he’d play in North Carolina. He missed those times with Arthur so dearly. “I trust that while I’m gone you’ll continue fighting your fight over here. And you’ll come home safely too?”

“Indeed, that is the plan.” Arthur’s eyes scanned over his supplies. “Now, are you sure you have everything you need?”

“Yes,” Alfred sighed. Sometimes Arthur was such a mother.

"Are you sure you have a secure place to stay in Philadelphia? Do you have anywhere else to go in case things sour?”

“Arthur, I have accommodation in every single one of my provinces. Some may be more livable than others, sure, but that's beside the point.” He paused to stretch out each of his next few words; “I will be fine.”

“Are you certain? Are you in any pain right now?”

“Yes, I'm certain. And no I'm not in –” Gah! that was a spike! Oww, that hurt. He clutched his tummy as he whined like a baby. Talk about perfect Goddamned timing!

“Alfred!” Arthur reached out for him.

“I can manage! I can manage!” He squinted as he bent over, waiting for the pulsing sensation to subside. “This has happened before, it'll go down in –” Ow! “ – Ahh! In a few seconds!”

Arthur leaned back as he scoffed and grumbled at himself. “I am a fool for letting you go…”

“No!” Alfred cried. “Please! I need to leave.” He hoped his pleading eyes could reveal how much he really was begging him at that moment. “I know Philadelphia so well. I can get the things I need from there so fast. I’ll be safe in this carriage the whole ride there and back. Once in the city itself, I’ll have people around me to ask for the man. I can stay in my room and he can visit me, or if something shows up I’ll find some way to safely visit him!”

Arthur listened, but he only seemed somewhat convinced.

“I won’t do anything physically drastic,” Alfred said as he shook his head. The pain had almost completely subsided. He could do this.

Arthur crossed his arms. “Are you sure you are comfortable?”

“Yes.”

“Is there anything else I can do?" He griped as he looked at the ground.

"Yeah." Alfred said as he leaned up to his face and made direct eye contact with him. “Don’t worry about me for every single second that I'm gone, all right?”

Arthur exhaled, looking away. Then he turned back and pointed in his face. “You will not dare to do anything unsafe then!”

Alfred smiled for the first time in what felt like ages. “At the moment, I am a vegetable with big beady eyes and great big listening ears. The only dangerous thing I can do is probably that of the vocal offence.”

Arthur smiled softly. “Are you trying to sound smart?” He tried to hide his laugh as he crossed his arms again, but this time tighter.

“Yes!” Alfred could have chuckled.

“Very well then,” Arthur said softly. “Off you hop, you unlicked cub.” He tapped at the front of the carriage, and the driver got his horses moving.

Alfred beamed as he heard the sounds of the clips and the clops finally begin. And he also blushed for the insults of old time's sake.

“Prithee, Alfred,” Arthur cried. “Do take a knife by your side. You never know when there will be attackers.”

Then Alfred laughed. What a strange thing to request. They were personifications, after all. Who could kidnap them?

“I will!” He shouted out his reply.

“Come back as soon as you can!”

“I will.” He whispered that time, and by then the carriage had surely started its journey all the way to Philadelphia.

Most of the ride was simple. Alfred had packed some books Arthur had suggested. Each one was enthralling; Arthur knew him far too well. He sung hymns with no choir. He played the music for each song on his piano rock for fun. He watched the landscape change again and again. He felt the wind on his face when he’d poke his head outside far enough. He’d sleep. Then he’d dream of Deborah. He’d cry. He’d remember Arthur. And then he’d smile.

When he finally arrived, he made his way with ease. The people were naturally nice to him. He retrieved the key from the neighbor, a lovely spinster he’d given it to. Some other kind ladies helped him to his room. Their husbands and sons then carried his things.

And so he was there. He hadn’t been there in years. The old front door of one of his many places to stay in his lands.

He was so excited to put all his things down. Then he’d rest for a bit, eat some food. Play a game. Then find that man. Get a super-secret direct line straight from the Crown without that tyrant’s knowledge. Maybe finally change some thing around here for his people.

He grabbed the key from around his neck, put it in the hole and twisted it. The door opened, and he took a deep breath in as he stepped inside.

There were nice pastel peach curtains in the first room, and a bookshelf full of old papers and sketches and drawings. And a tiny one-man table.

Or at least there used to be.

Alfred dropped his key.

“Oh!” He screamed out, clutching his chest in shock. “Jesus!” He hissed as he rested against the wall, trying to keep himself from dropping down to the ground.

There was a much bigger table there. Surrounded by many foreign men.

They were surprised to see him, and boy was he surprised to see _them_. But they also looked somewhat pleased, contrary to his own feelings. They spoke in a hushed language to each other, seemingly excited.

Alfred frowned immediately. He knew the sounds of that language. It was French.

“You!” He shouted as he pointed at one of them in particular. Oh, he recognized that one... It was that awful mustache man! “You again!”

“Yes, it is me again.” He said confidently. Too confident. “We said we were preparing your room for you.”

Alfred ran a hand through his hair. So when France said they were preparing 'his room' for him in that letter, he really meant it literally when he said that it was _his_ very own Philadelphian room. But how even… How’d France even know he’d made his way to Philadelphia? How? How, how _how?_

Alfred could have screamed again. “How did you…”

Another man stepped ahead, his hands outstretched in an apologetic welcome. Yes, a welcome in his own house. Alfred put his hands on his hips. He wondered where he hid that knife of his, as Arthur told him to carry.

“Good day, Mr Jones,” the new Frenchman said carefully, yet with a rock-solid voice. For some Godforsaken reason it made Alfred relax a little. This man sounded much kinder – even more trustworthy – than the man with the mustache. Although, his French accent was much thicker.

“My name is… Baptiste, err… Baptiste-Pierre.” He dipped his head in a chivalrous greeting. “We are here not to…” His eyebrows knitted together, as if he were trying to think of what to say. It dawned on Alfred that he struggled to speak English. “To not cause trouble. We are friendly.”

Alfred glared at him, but he started to show interest by raising his chin. This man seemed alright, at least compared to the rest.

“Do you remember… a congress? Called a…” He trailed off.

“Continental Congress,” another man chimed in, smiling sweetly at Alfred as he said it. He had almost no accent at all.

“ _Oui_ , it was made in angry… angry ‘no’ of –”

Mustache man rolled his eyes. “In rejection of –”

“Of the Intolerable Acts.” Baptiste dipped his head again. He seemed proud of what he had said, and actively tried to ignore his interrupter.

“Umm…” Alfred swallowed. “I think I do...”

“Well, now there is a second one...”

Their conversation was rocky, and Alfred found himself disliking the man with the mustache more and more by the second. Albeit, not because of his creepiness, but because of his rudeness and how he insulted Baptiste.

He was entranced by this Baptiste person. He’d never met a man from France as gentle and sweet as him. It shocked him, but it also pleased him. He tried his best to converse with only him, but the other men’s interruptions constantly made that task difficult.

Over time, he was filled in with the details of each congress. Of what was happening without him. Of how he could be a part of it. He hated to admit it, but these French henchmen made it sound so interesting.

And then he found out they were tracking him down to invite him to see it for himself.

Wait… _What?_

“You mean this Continental Congress you’re talking about? You want me to come with you?” He was caught short of breath.

“Not with us… With Mr Franklin!”

“Mr Franklin?” Alfred asked. Who was that? And how… how did they know all this?

“Oh yes! This is such excellent timing!” One of them cheered. “Monsieur Bonnefoy should be arriving in only a few days from now, as you would know from his letters! He is coming with Mr Benjamin Franklin!”

Alfred blinked. “Ben Franklin?” He bowed his head. “The famous Ben Franklin is coming here?”

Baptiste nodded.

“With the personification of France?”

“ _Oui._ In fact…” Another man grumbled impatiently as he rolled his eyes, slouching with an elbow on the table and his face propped up by his fist. “He told us he would be here around now.”

“Yes!” It seemed the previous man’s complaints were left unacknowledged. “It is such a wonderful coincidence for you to meet us in here! We were only just about hatching a plan in order to find you –”

“ _Non_ , no. This was no coincidence. This was fate!”

“No, it was mere coincidence.”

“Fate.”

“ _Non_ –”

“Shh, allow me to believe in fate!”

The door abruptly barged open, and Alfred jumped as he felt his chest for his little hopeless heart. It was beating again at a rapid pace; the second time that day. Oh, this stupid idea of a trip was going to be the death of him.

“I am here, my dear boys!” France said as he sauntered into the room. “And look who I have with me – Ahh!”

France himself jumped back in fright as well after he noticed Alfred. Right before he promptly burst into a fit of laughter.

“Oh, my dear _Treize!_ You look so pale! I did not mean to startle you… I was not expecting you!” He chuckled. “I am so glad you have chosen to join us so quickly! Here, come meet Mr Franklin.”

Alfred opened his mouth to say he hadn’t joined anyone, and that he had other _more important_ things to do for both Arthur’s sake and his own cause. But that was all before France stood back, revealing a wrinkly old man wearing strangely shaped spectacles and a broad smile.

So this foolishly-looking man was the almighty inventor and diplomat and many other things; Mr Benjamin Franklin.

“Tell me, boy,” he said excitedly, suddenly, as his eyes shone bright. He looked so excited to see Alfred standing there before him. He was almost like a little puppy. It made Alfred want to mess with him. “Do you know how to tell a good joke?”

Alfred blinked silently. Oh. This man was so bizarre. But then, he could definitely get along with that. He smirked at him proudly. “Well, I thought you looked like a court jester when I first saw you, Sir. So, it’s nice to know my judgement remains intact.”

There was a snicker to the side of him, and an outraged cry that “we could never speak to him in such a way.” Alfred immediately tensed up again. He wondered if they’d stop their chatter if he told them he could speak a little French. And that every time they belittled him he could hear the things they said well enough.

France perked up unexpectedly, watching intensely as he would shift in posture every so often. He immediately snapped, turning on his henchmen and barking at them in French. Eventually, after a few snide responses, he started full on shouting and shooed them all off. They chose to leave Alfred’s room in a flustered haste, with Baptiste being the only one kind enough to apologize and say to him “ _adieu._ ”

“There.” France said as he rubbed his hands together. “That was easily done. I want you to be comfortable while you stay with us.”

“Stay?” Alfred asked. “I…” He shook his head. “I can’t stay.”

Mr Franklin’s smile dropped. “Why, of course you can, boy. It’s why you’re here, is it not?”

Alfred looked from France to Franklin, then France again. “I… I didn’t come here for this. I came just to do an errand. I… I have to do that.”

“But you must see the Continental Congress as well. You must hear the things your people are saying. You must see the action that has been planned and all that has already taken place.” Mr Franklin said, confused. “You have the right to come to the congress. To help give your people a voice.”

Alfred’s expression changed. He was confused, and he was suspicious too. But this congress… it sounded like exactly what he wanted to see. And it was an opportunity right in front of him. An invitation. A direction. His very own people gathering to represent others and give themselves a say. Or at least, that was the thing that Franklin seemed to promise.

He crossed his arms over his chest as he looked straight into France’s eyes. He still didn’t trust him. Not after how strange and how invasive he acted back in North Carolina.

“Why are you doing this?” He asked him accusingly. There must have been something more to it.

“You mean why am I helping you?” France smiled charmingly. He didn’t accept Alfred’s skepticism as legitimate. “A revolt is very nearby for you. I admire the ideals of freedom. I think with the right people, you can lay the basis of your new system stemmed from this revolt by those ideals. Then you can become a strong force of nature on your own.” France nodded determinedly, and then he smiled deviously. “You will make a good ally for the future when my time will come as well.”

“You mean England and I?” Alfred asked, not fully understanding.

France gave him a strange look. “Oh, that may be a little difficult to manage in the upheaval that is yet to come,” he said with a smirk.

“Oh,” Alfred said. “Well, not too much upheaval, I hope.”

The conversation continued after Franklin quickly changed the subject. Alfred ended up speaking with him a lot. He was charming at times, and not at others. He was intelligent, and he spoke with a lot of honesty. He had a sharp wit, and was very sociable. Overall, Alfred felt like he could like the man. He seemed kind enough. He could crack many jokes, which Alfred adored. But most of all, he cared a lot for the people he stood for, and he cared for Alfred too.

Surprisingly, he also seemed to fully trust France, which Alfred found odd. Mhh… So, maybe France wasn’t a completely untrustworthy character after all.

In the end, he agreed to go to the congress, but only for a short amount of time. No more than a day, they agreed. He had to leave and complete his errands. He had to speak to that Philadelphia man, although he kept that last part very quiet in case the men in front of him were not what they seemed to be.

However, in the end, he reasoned that seeing that congress at least one time wouldn’t hurt him. His short trip didn’t mean he couldn’t see what these people were talking about. It didn’t mean he couldn’t wonder off for a tiny bit and explore the experiences of his own people. And it sure as hell didn’t mean he couldn’t attend any meetings outside of his already planned schedule.

It’d be something he could talk about with Arthur, too.

France said some of the meetings had already begun. They began on the 10th of May; that was a couple of days ago. Franklin said he’d only arrived in Philadelphia on the 5th with the aid of France by his side, and that things were a little rushed from date to date, but they were prepared to go to congress now.

Right now?

Oh, well... Alfred supposed if he wanted to make it quick, then this would be a real blessing for him.

“Yes, I’ll come with you,” he said after they started to head out the door. “But I just…” He started walking, but there were strange black dots in his vision. He felt so dizzy, and the world around him was so blurry. He felt a lot of aches and pains in his chest, and his gut churned and gurgled.

“I think I’m going to –”

Alfred fell to the ground, but not before Mr Franklin grabbed him tight and held him up by the shoulders.

“Hang together, boy! Hang together.” He shouted as he let the young boy lean on him.

Oh, Alfred was so sick of feeling sick.

France stood before him, and he held his cheeks in his hand as he moved his head from side to side, checking some sort of lights in the back of his eyes.

“Mhh,” he mumbled. “You are very ill from these conflicts.” He frowned. “More so than I originally thought.”

All of a sudden, France swept him off his feet, and cradled him as if he were a baby in his arms with empirical ease.

“Oh my God!” Alfred cried out. He couldn’t help but laugh at the experience as he felt France carry him out the room. It just seemed so bizarre. Oh, the whole thing was so bizarre! He tried to stop his laughing but… He couldn’t. He just couldn’t! He suddenly felt excited, so giddy. He’d missed the feeling of joy so much.

And he didn’t want to let that feeling go.

“Ahh, see? There’s a solution for everything! I shall carry you there, dear _Treize._ Do not fear!”

Alfred laughed again. “I wasn’t fearing,” he smiled as an innocent blush painted his cheeks. How could he have ever seen this man as a snake way before?

“Ow!” He cried out suddenly, feeling little stabs of pain from one place where France held onto him.

“Oh, _je comprends_. I see, I see.” France moved his hand away from the sore spot. “Tell me if pain like that arises again, you understand?”

Alfred nodded. “I understand,” he said quietly.

“Don’t worry, _mon cher_. Sooner or later your people will realize this is not a civil war. Then you will not only find your pain alleviated, but your strength will return to you thrice as strong as you’ve ever felt it before. All from the cries and the energy of your people shouting for justice.”

Alfred listened to France’s words, feeling almost enchanted. He let his mind wander for a moment, and when it returned he realized he found hope in those words. Huh. Maybe France wasn’t that bad at all.

During their walk to the Continental Congress room, France told him of his plan of attack.

“I am going to drop you off there with Mr Franklin, you hear?”

“Drop me off? Why?”

“I do not belong there. The principle you are fighting for is self-assertion, _oui?”_

“Yes…”

“And so I will not interfere with that.”

Oh… Alfred had never heard something like that before.

Mr Franklin nodded from beside him, reassuring him. “Don’t worry. You won’t be alone. I will be the one to guide you in.”

Oh. Alfred sighed in relief. But he was also so grateful. Something about all of this just seemed so right to him.

“Do they…” Alfred asked, curious to know more. “Will any of them know who I am?”

“They know you are the Colonies, yes,” Mr Franklin said between heavy breaths. The long-ish walk was beginning to wear him out, but he refused to be bested in health by a bunch of steps from place to place. “They have been awaiting your arrival for a long time now. France was gracious enough to already brief us on your kind long before we were given the pleasure of even the option of one day meeting you.” Then he chuckled, and Alfred smiled. “Oh, I cannot wait to see their jealous faces! I am so glad I was the one to meet you first.”

When they arrived at the building, Alfred could only stand in awe. People were buzzing in and out, some giving him peculiar looks for being carried like a bride to her bed, but others looked amused. Most didn’t even notice. This sure was one busy place.

By then, it was safe for France to put Alfred down, and he was able to walk himself in the building with only the aid of Mr Franklin’s helping arm. He spun around, waving at France to say goodbye and shouting his thanks from across the street.

“Remember,” France called out to him before they finally parted ways. “This is your calling!”

They walked through the hall, and around a few bends. By God, it was hot inside. But the Philadelphian May had always been hot.

Eventually they came across a door, and Mr Franklin pushed it open with great haste, revealing a crowd of men inside who were all suddenly staring straight at him.

“Behold,” his big voice boomed through the room. “This is the embodiment of your long awaited nation!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha, this chapter started off really sad to write but then it got really fun, lol
> 
> I’m to lazy to write my own summary on the Second Continental Congress so [here is wikipedia’s](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Second_Continental_Congress) lol:
> 
> The First Continental Congress had sent entreaties to King George III to stop the Coercive Acts; they had also created the Continental Association to establish a coordinated protest of those acts, putting a boycott on British goods. The Second Continental Congress met on May 10, 1775 to plan further responses if the British government had not repealed or modified the acts; however, the American Revolutionary War had already started by that time with the Battles of Lexington and Concord, and the Congress was called upon to take charge of the war effort.
> 
> The Continental Congress had no explicit legal authority to govern, but it assumed all the functions of a national government, such as appointing ambassadors, signing treaties, raising armies, appointing generals, obtaining loans from Europe, issuing paper money (called "Continentals"), and disbursing funds. The Congress had no authority to levy taxes and was required to request money, supplies, and troops from the states to support the war effort. Individual states frequently ignored these requests.
> 
> Benjamin Franklin arrived in Philadelphia the 5th of May [according to most sources, some say the 5th of March??? idk why], preparing himself for the Second Continental Congress, where the first meeting would commence on the 10th of May. He’d only just got back from visiting France, and then immediately they fling the old man into meetings, haha. The man is non-stop!
> 
> Benjamin Franklin is quoted to have told congress to “hang together” whenever things would get stressful, or their unity was in doubt. I’ve used that quote to show how he’d care for Alfred’s welfare.
> 
> Lmao I think I misjudged a few things in last chapter's notes, because 1776 is still a little while away… uh oh. 
> 
> Thank you for reading :)  
> I hope to see you next chapter (((\\[^-^]/)))


	25. The year was 1775

Before Alfred could even comprehend what Mr Franklin had said, he was dragged straight into the big, humid, heavy meeting room and plonked right down onto the centerpiece chair. It was a little hard and uncomfortable, he supposed, but it was nothing compared to the long coats and many layers of clothing those men were for some reasons wearing. Boy, it was boiling!

They swarmed around him like a heap of friendly wasps. All of them gave him unabashed attention, although only some were attentive. There was some flattery, but there was also some grumbling and bumbling, and every now and again one of them would grab at him to feel how strong he was. Alfred wasn’t very fond of that at all.

However, there was also the strong emotion of joy all around in the air as they celebrated his ‘return’ to them, even though he had never met any of them before. Many of the men acted as if he were their son or something, finally coming home after months and months of boarding school in another far-away province.

Alfred _was_ fond of that. He’d never… he’d never had a father.

It was something he envied Deborah for, but he’d never dare admit to such a thing before now.

“So, dear country.” A voice suddenly sounded, snapping his attention back to reality. “If you could recreate all the systems of the world according to your own whims, how would you chose to rule over the lives of our people?”

If he… If he could recreate the word in the way he wanted it… How would he shape it? How would he ‘rule’ over his own?

Alfred sighed, smiling slightly. Now, that one was easy. All he had to do was remember the things that Deborah had said to him. It was one of his most favorite moments with her. Oh, how he missed her now.

“I want a world where every single one of my people can live ruling over themselves. As if they were their own Kings and Queens,” he said as staunchly as he could, keeping the bittersweet tears at bay.

But when he looked at all the men, he couldn’t help but gulp and tug at his collar as he watched them stare at him silently. It was dead quiet. Some looked amused, while others were pleasantly surprised. Others had scoffed.

Until one lone man from the back finally spoke up and broke the silence with a gasp. “Oh!” He cried out, a hand on his chest as he smiled so expressively. “How poetic of you, dear boy!”

The crowd laughed, and Alfred felt the weight in his chest dissipate and he could breathe again. He felt a light and fuzzy feeling from inside, and he couldn’t help laughing too.

These men were funny. These men were strange. He didn’t know them at all; he didn’t know if he could trust them or not. He didn’t know if they were good people, or if they were bad. And he had no idea if they would agree with him on things, or if they ever heard the things he had to say, they’d toss him to the curb immediately.

But one thing was for sure… His presence there certainly meant something deeply profound to these men. Most of them seemed so grateful for his appearance, as if they had brought them relief well needed. Even though a small few seemed to be unappreciative of him.

Some of them seemed disappointed whenever they looked at him. Alfred couldn’t say why. They didn’t tell him. He didn’t ask. Instead, he turned his head and smiled as he watched each eager man introduce himself.

He’d forget their names immediately after moving on to the next one. It amused him, but it also made him feel a tad bad. He giggled, then shook his head, pinching his nose as he turned back to the first man who’d introduced himself.

“Ahh, sorry to bother you again, but do you mind telling me your name once more?”

“Peyton Randolph,” came his reply in a calm and sturdy voice, much contrary to the bold and brash powdered wig on top of the head of whom it belonged to. “I am the president of this here wonderful Congress.”

Alfred nodded slowly. “Peyton,” he whispered under his breath. He’d have to remember that.

If only Arthur were here. He was so good at remembering names and faces.

“Ahh,” Mr Franklin hummed as he grabbed another man from the crowd by the shoulder and yanked him until he yielded. The stranger let himself be hauled over to where Alfred was seated, and when he arrived, Mr Franklin eagerly showed him off like some sort of icon he should know.

Alfred laughed at him. It was so stupid. Especially given the only man here Alfred could even recognize was Mr Franklin himself, and that was because of all of his inventions. There was no way Alfred could ever guess who this man was now before him.

“I am Robert Morris,” the man gave Mr Franklin an amused side glance, as if proud to introduce himself before the other could butt in and do it for him. “I am from here, Pennsylvania. Not much of a distance to travel for this meeting, I know. This is something I must proclaim my gratitude for considering my other commitments.”

“My dear friend here is the head of all things finance,” Mr Franklin boasted. “If you ever have any money worries, seek him for his expert advice.”

Mr Morris nodded. “I also serve as chairman for the Pennsylvania Committee of Safety whenever this man is out of town,” he said in mocking tone.

“Ahh yes, I must thank you for that.” Mr Franklin praised him.

“Committee of Safety?” Alfred asked, raising an eyebrow.

“A union of men who serve to protect the people of this province whenever the redcoats will not.”

“Oh.” Alfred frowned.

Mr Franklin then brought another stranger forward, introducing him as a good friend of both himself and Mr Morris.

“This here is a man who works behind the scenes very well.” He said as the new man beside him bowed his head, silent yet not at all still. “His name is Silas Deane.”

“It is a very find day to meet you, dear country.” Mr Deane stated in a manner which Alfred found contrary to his own beliefs about the heat-filled and scorching nature of the current weather. “I have been blessed to become well acquainted with Mr France. I must express the pleasure I feel over the possibility that I may learn to know you just as well.”

Alfred grinned suddenly, although it confused him to be called a country. “You have spoken to Mr France?” He said eagerly.

“Yes. He is the hotbed of modern philosophies after all, and a well-known rival of the British Empire. He has been negotiating with us the possibilities of secretly shipping supplies to any formal army we may establish in exchange for a lump sum.”

“That sounds like something more astute for my department of affairs, however.” Mr Morris chimed in with determined hilarity before the stranger playfully shoved him away.

Alfred stayed silent, listening while being entertained before the time passed and he could register the meaning behind the things being said. Because that meant… _wait..._

“A formal army?” He nearly gasped under his breath as he clutched onto his side. He was already in so much pain. And they were speaking of the possibility of it worsening… to the point of it needing some sort of formally established army? Alfred didn’t like the sound of that.

“Are you all right?” He heard a voice from somewhere else say.

“Oh, yes. Yeah, I’m fine. I just…” He shook his head as he tried his best to smile, shuffling himself on his uncomfortable and overly hardened chair. He felt like he was sweating so much that he had dampened it. He started fanning himself with his hand. “I had no idea things would be getting so serious, that is all.”

Mr Deane gave him a concerned look before replying. “Why, of course. Things have been moving along in such a rapid pace.” He shook his head. “I believed everyone was aware of such things, especially after the news of our success at Fort Ticonderoga.”

Alfred paused. “Fort Ticonderoga?”

Mr Deane nodded once again. “Yes. I was the very man who convinced Connecticut to go fourth with the opportunity. It happened only a few days ago – in fact it was May 10th, the very first day we began these meetings. A small force of Green Mountain Boys managed to secure superior arms, more powerful cannons, and an abundance of ammunition. They managed to surprise the British garrison there, and attacked and seized Fort Ticonderoga in record time. It was a massive success greatly needed to advance the patriotic cause. I am very proud to have played my part in arguing the pursuit of such a vital strategic movement.”

He then frowned; almost disappointed Alfred hadn’t heard of it. “Are you sure you were unaware of this? Why would Mr France not tell you?”

Alfred just stood there. He was shocked, and he blinked a few times. He’d never really heard of such a thing in the news, or from Missy or anyone else. But he guessed it was because it had only happened so soon.

“I suppose news travels very slowly to my house,” he responded, unsure why he felt uneasy. He bit his lip and fiddled with his collar as he shuffled in his chair. It was really hot in here.

“Oh!” Mr Franklin butted in as he continued on with his antics from the side of the conversation. “Look who has come along to join us!”

And there was another man walking along, one with a long eagle-like nose and two very defined eyebrows. He had a few papers in his hands, and he was fanning himself with them.

“This is John Jay.” Mr Franklin introduced him to Alfred, and Mr Jay gave a little appeasing bow.

Alfred smiled. “Good day to you,” he said as he bowed as well. “I’m Alfred.”

“Yes, the embodiment of the colonies all in one,” Mr Jay said, rather delighted. “How excellent. I’ve always believed the colonies should band together to form a strong, centralized sort of union.” He waved his papers around to emphasize the point. “It is excellent that God seems to agree with me, making these provinces represented by only one fine strong little boy.”

Alfred could have blushed. He’d always wondered why there wasn’t thirteen of him… And he was flattered. But he also felt flustered over the way the man had put it. He wasn’t… he wasn’t that little, was he?

Mr Jay spoke up to the crowd. “The thing that matters is the centralization of this cause. See how this boy is one, and not thirteen. Clearly God has spoken in favour of our confederation and our Congress.”

A man then interjected, rather angry as he spoke with a certain small little accent twang that had slowly developed throughout the decades. Alfred pointed his nose to the air as he stretched out to catch a glance of him. He was Georgian.

“I must vocalize my rebuttal and raise this question; why aren’t there thirteen boys standing before us now? Each province has its own spirit, and –”

“ _Twelve_ , you mean, Mr Hall!” Another man suddenly interjected. Alfred recognized him, he’d already introduced himself. He was from one of the more northern provinces. But Alfred had forgotten his name. “I still have my doubts your province can even stomach this congress.”

“No,” Mr Hall said sternly. “I say, there are thirteen here now. I am here to represent Georgia, and I know we have our differences, but St. John’s Parish has selected me in good will. I too am here in good faith.”

There were sounds of snideful dismissal heard throughout the room.

“Let me remind you, Mr Hall, that you were only just now vocalizing your rejection of the existence of this boy as an embodiment of one. And Let me remind you, Mr Hall, that last year, your province did not even send a single soul to represent yourselves in our first congress.”

Mr Hall sighed, and he looked down to the ground for a moment before looking back up and replying. “Sadly, at that time, we could not jeopardize the possibility of British military assistance in the face of our war against the Indians –”

“Well, if you need help from Britain so much, then why are you here to protest their current occupation over us? Where is your reason?”

Mr Hall sighed again. “I am listening to you,” he said, trying to keep himself speaking with a calmed down tone. “However, you must see that our conditions have changed, and we have come here in good faith –”

“No!”

“Stop this, stop this.” Suddenly a man stepped forth, his arms outstretched as if he were taming a pack of wild dogs. “Must things be so inconsiderate in here that the youngest man in the room is to be the one disarming the most hostile of arguments?” He hissed.

“Sure thing, Rutledge,” the king aggressor muttered, and they all fell apart back into their old conversations.

Rutledge then looked back to Alfred, who sat in his chair all nervous as those cold, cool eyes bore into him. He didn’t trust them. He shuffled in his seat again. It was starting to get stuffy in here.

“Edward Rutledge,” he suddenly said, with a slight nod of his head. “I am from South Carolina. That man there speaking, he was Lyman Hall. Forgive him for his comments.”

Alfred didn’t know what to say. “You said… you said you were the youngest one here?”

Mr Rutledge nodded once more. “I am five-and-twenty years of age, yes. The youngest here, compared to you, who I am sure contrary to appearance is truly the eldest.”

Alfred frowned. He rubbed his arms as he tried to breathe in and get more air. It was so, so stuffy in here. He sat up and stood up from his chair. It hurt to walk a bit, but he felt like he needed to get away. That chair was really uncomfortable anyway.

He walked into the crowd, where some stared at him, and others continued chatting idly.

One man tilted his head, reached out for his arm and asked him, “Are you supposed to be out of your seat? You look as if you are going to sink to the ground like the Peggy Stewart!”

“The Peggy Stewart?”

“You know? The sinking of the Peggy Stewart? The cargo vessel from Maryland – my good old province! She was set alight and sunk in October last year as punishment for daring to carry goods boycotted by the colonies. Have you not heard?”

Alfred nodded in recognition. He remembered hearing about that. How couldn’t he? Her fate was so similar to the Gaspee’s. “Oh yes, I’ve heard of that. The Annapolis Tea Party, you couldn’t miss it after hearing about it.”

The Marylander nodded and let go of his arm, seemingly forgetting his originally concern with Alfred in his own self-satisfaction.

Alfred continued on his way, waddling around a few men as he focused on his breathing to distract him from the aches in his legs and in his back, and the hurtful sores on his stomach.

“We all still believe your talents in writing to be a very well awaited asset for our cause,” a very tall man from beside him said kindly to a more eccentric looking one looking gruff. “Especially with your tract written last year. Your reputation is one of skillfulness, albeit radical in your conclusions.”

“I do not believe my conclusions on allodial title to be radical at all.” The stranger one snapped back, surprisingly. “It is a shame most of Congress could not see the light, and rejected my work. Just think of how far we could already be if they did.” He sighed as he looked around. “Where is Mr Adams? Shouldn’t he be here?”

“He will be,” the tall one said patiently. “I believe he left to recollect some documents.” He then turned to the third man in their conversation and smiled. “Good thing he is not our roommate also.”

The third man laughed. “No, I would not want him scurrying through my things either. Besides that, sharing a room with both you and my brother-in-law is already rather crowded, and especially in this heat.” He turned to look if the windows were open, and he nearly jumped back in surprise when he saw Alfred there.

“Oh! Dear boy! How did you make it out of your seat with so many men hounding you over there?” He laughed again. “No, no. It is good to see you over here, with us Virginians. Come,” he beckoned him into their little social circle. “Join us.”

Alfred smiled as he walked in and started speaking with them. His invite was given to him by a supposed Benjamin Harrison the Fifth, which was a name the man joked more fitting for a king than a Congress delegate. The taller one was called Mr Washington, and the standoffish character who crossed his arms often was Mr Jefferson.

For some reason, a spark from within told him some of those names would be very important later on, but he couldn’t pinpoint who or how or why.

“I am most likely the most passionate about this here Congress,” Mr Harrison boasted excitably. “And I am elated to finally meet you! How are you liking this Congress so far?”

Alfred thought for a moment. “Well, I think it’s a bit hectic at the moment but… it has potential? Do you think a union of men like this could negotiate with the King?”

Mr Harrison smirked while Mr Washington put a hand to his forehead.

“Well, we did send a letter to the Crown a few months ago.”

“Oh!” Alfred perked up, excited. That was great news!

“We asked for reconciliation and a return to normality, continuing to live under British rule on a series of conditions that allowed us – _you_ – to have better representation in our own affairs. I may have disagreed with a few of the statements within that letter…”

“A few?” Mr Jefferson scoffed. “I’ve heard you stood up in front of everyone and declared you only agreed with one word in the whole thing, and that was the word ‘Congress.’ You said the whole thing was too appeasing.”

“I stand by my case,” he replied strongly. “It had no indication of any sort towards any bill written for the future in the actual protection of our rights and freedoms. And the question that prompted that response, mind you, was asking if the letter was too offensive to the King. I disagreed. We should not be the appeasers here; we should stand firm!” He shook his fists. “It is the King who should appease and serve us instead.”

Alfred nodded. He liked the sound of that. “You like the idea of government serving the people and not the other way around.” He said simply as he felt a little flutter in his chest. It was so nice to feel that instead of the constant heat and his throbbing pain. He really was liking these intriguing ideas.

“Yes!”

He smiled brighter than the sunshine. He liked this part of the room. “So… how did the Crown take the letter, then?” He asked eagerly, ready to hear more. “Did you make any progress?”

“No, sadly.” Mr Washington said slowly. “The King did not read a single word. He ignored it, and he has branded us all as traitors.”

Alfred crossed his arms. “Oh,” he said as he narrowed his eyes. So his King saw this room as a place where traitors would go. He smiled a very strange smile. He suited this place far more than he originally thought he would. “That’s a shame,” he feigned disappointment, which left him feeling nothing but confusion.

That letter… It asked for more representation, and still under the Crown’s wing at that! It kept Alfred and Arthur together… so why was he acting in this way?

He said his ‘ _goodbye_ ’s, and his ‘ _it was lovely to talk to you_ ’s, and he found a small bench in the corner of the room, and rested himself on it.

Most of the men in here… some of them looked like simple farmers, others had told him they were inventors and physicians, printers and poets. They all travelled long and far and wide for this Congress. And they all met up in this hot stuffy room, and the men argued over everything, even whether or not the windows should be open.

Exhaustion suddenly overcame him, and he kicked his legs up to lie down on the bench. His pain slowly subsided and he was about to drift off before he heard another voice.

“Umm, I apologize for interrupting you, but we were wondering how we should address you.”

Alfred opened his eyes and looked at the new group of men standing before him. It suddenly occurred to him that he’d never told any of them his name.

“I’m Alfred,” he said softly. “My name is Alfred.”

A few sounds of joy, a few praises of his name, and another question:

“How did you get that name?”

“I chose it. The embodiment of England would always tell me stories about Alfred the Great and…” He could feel himself blush. “I wanted to be another great like him.” _To be another hero for him._

“And how old are you, if we are allowed to ask such a thing?”

Alfred sighed, and his eyes nearly closed again. He was enjoying the conversation, but he just didn’t have the energy anymore. “I have no idea. People say I look five-and-ten – or fifteen.” He rolled his head to the side so he could look at them better, lazily covering a yawn with his hand. “But how old _am_ I? I have no idea. Maybe five hundred.”

A few more coos and sounds of interest. One man tried to ask another question but another stopped him.

“Are you feeling all right, Alfred?”

He tried to smile, but he shook his head. “I have a splintering headache,” he tried to laugh. It came out as more of a cough. “It’s all from the kind-of civil war that’s going on right now. I’m in a lot of pain.”

A chorus of sympathy sounded, and for some reason it almost made Alfred cry, to hear his people acknowledge his own pain after years of knowing theirs in meditation. He hid his eyes behind his arms.

“We will all strive to address that for you, then.” One of them said nicely, and they all agreed. Then they left him alone, and the room fell peaceful and quiet only for him, and so he could rest.

He let his eyes close, and there was a smile on his face as he fell into meditation.

There were good emotions, and bad emotions. Politics were a mess, but there was nothing new there. Just a lot of riled up emotion.

He opened his eyes in the place he’d been transported too. His two legs stood on grassy land. It was windy. The scent of gunpower was rife. Equipment was everywhere, littered all over the ground. Uniforms were dropped in the mud. Alfred recognized what it was. This place was a battlefield.

He sighed as he fell down to his knees, feeling the wind in his hair as he mourned for the souls that perished. He looked up, noticing a strange symbol from within the clouds, and he fell back into the mud without a worry for his clothes and watched the sky with eyes of wonder while lying down.

It shifted and transformed and changed, flashing pictures like a painting, and revealing turbulent scenes from old times and memories from places long past.

There was the moment he first met people with the same complexion as him. It was strange, and they looked shocked. He wondered how shocked he himself looked, as he watched them build strange buildings and settle in them. Many didn’t last, until Jamestown came and fell.

The images shifted again, and then it started moving, revealing Myles Standish engaging in his own standoff actions, igniting an anger within the souls of the Indians.

Alfred sighed as he looked away. Was this sky only going to play his past conflicts? If so, he refused to see it.

Something however, made him turn back to look at it. Maybe it was the sound carried through the wind that left him breathless. The sound of a woman’s voice long forgotten in his mind.

Anne Hutchinson was giving one of her sermons at home. There were plenty of women in there, supporting her, engaging with her. Everyone was enticed, enriched by the experience of being there with her, of learning her perspective of the word of God. There were men there too, and young boys and young girls. Everyone from the community was allowed in, and in their they formed their own new little community. One safe and sound and happy, and Alfred felt so loved there.

He felt a tear go down his cheek as the image vanished, and was replaced with a war that Alfred never got the chance to see himself. King Phillip’s War. The one that sparked the idea that he could fight wars on his own, without the British. He wondered what that Mr Hall man would have to say about that.

The image changed again, and William Berkeley was suddenly yelling out about how angry he was over Bacon’s rebellion against him.

The screams changed, and churned and turned until they twisted in pitch and a little girl was standing there. Abigail… Poor Abigail. She was so young, so afflicted, and so frightened. She screamed in court, yelling about her horrible dreams and the witches that hurt her. But then she took it way too far, and Miss Abigail Williams then accused poor, poor Tituba of harming her. And that sparked the cycle of a hysterical time Alfred would rather forget.

He shook his head, and the scene shifted again. This time, it was Alfred hearing the news from a kind lady who sold him some lovely seeds. Oglethorpe just declared Georgia a colony. Now, the worthy poor of Britain could go there, and build themselves up and live prosperously with Alfred, in the wonderous land of second chances.

He smiled. There were so many different lands that he covered; they were all independent from each other. They had different identities, different sounds. Different passions. He had so many memories in each of them, and he could remember meeting countless amounts of people from all different wakes of life.

Servants in dire poverty. Those who lived with no freedom at all. Yeomen, so, so, so many yeomen; most of his population were subsistence farmers, producing only enough to feed themselves and their families. Then there were midwives, spinsters, laborers, tradesmen and their wives, politicians and their wives, landowners, owners of questionable businesses, plantations, prisons, and those with bounties on their heads. Most who spoke English, many who spoke French, and a good solid minority who clung onto their old parent’s German, or sometimes Portuguese or Dutch or Spanish.

Alfred closed his eyes again, and when he finally woke up, he noticed that most of the men were gone. A carefully crafted letter of information was written up right next to him, held down by a nice cup of water. He took a sip, then he read through the letter. It was filled of dates and times and contact information for updates. He smiled.

He looked around the room yet again. Barely any men were left. He still didn’t know if he could trust them. He knew none of them personally, and they were all strangers for now. Some of them he felt strange around, scared even, at times. But others were humorous, and he still felt a strange pull to stay in this place. Something told him it was going to be important – he didn’t know if it was destiny or God or his personification status saying so, but no matter what, he was still glad to have been directed here.

It was strangely pleasant. He felt warm and fuzzy, but not hot nor in agony anymore. There was still pain there, of course, but he strangely felt the best he’d been in years. And that filled him with hope.

He got up, and readied himself for his journey to go see that Philadelphia man, and do the very things Arthur sent him for. He smiled as he made his way out, so excited to finally see everything shifting and turning and moving, just like the sky in his meditations… or were they his dreams?

Just as he passed through the door, however, he heard another man shout out. “Remember to return to us, Alfred! This is your Congress, after all! You should be a part of it!”

He’d only spent one afternoon with them, but he already knew his answer right away. He beamed as he spun around to back to smile him as he shouted out, “I will!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience with this chapter! I hope it was worth the wait! Writer’s block, begone!  
> And fingers crossed for the next one to come out soon too! It’s a very looooong boi… 
> 
> Hah, based on my own headcanons, Alfred’s off his real age by about 200 years too young.
> 
> Historical Notes:  
> \- On October 19, 1774, the cargo vessel Peggy Stewart was attacked for carrying tea that the Colonial authorities had demanded a boycott on in retaliation for the British treatment of the people of Boston following the Boston Tea Party. This little event was cheekily then referred to as the 'Annapolis Tea Party'. heheh...
> 
> \- Some of the men present during the 1775 meetings of the Second Continental Congress I chose to include were:
> 
> Mr Morris - A big financer of the revolution. Friends with Ben Franklin, would serve as chairman for the PPA's twenty-five member Committee of Safety whenever Ben was out of town.
> 
> Mr Deane - The first foreign diplomat from the United States to France. Sneaky bastard, quiet and covert in his dealings. He convinced the Capture of Fort Ticonderoga led by Ethan Allen and Benedict Arnold to go forward on May 10th 1775. Massive massive success on the patriot's behalf. You can read more about him [here, the Journal of the American Revolution.](https://allthingsliberty.com/2014/07/silas-deane-forgotten-patriot/) He's pretty cool.
> 
> Jay - A very strong advocate for Federalism, and a good friend of Alexander Hamilton later on. A few days after Alfred leaves and Mr Randolph steps down he's voted new chairman of the Congress. Present during the Treaty of Paris.
> 
> Hall - He was one of the 4 physicians to sign the declaration of independence! He was sent by St. John's Parish (present-day Liberty County), and when he arrived the others didn't give him too warm a welcome because of Georgia's absence in the meetings of 1774. He participated in debating but not voting, as he didn't even represent the whole colony until Georgia fully entered in July 1775. 
> 
> Rutledge - Was the youngest there. His 'considerate' comment comes from 1776 the musical lol.
> 
> BH the Vth - Interesting figure. Morally complex and ethically wonky by todays standards [lol but who here isn't]. I'll let you judge him by your own research. When in Philadelphia he bunked with roommates George Washington and his in-law Peyton Randolph. They left him on his own when Washy assumed command of the Continental Army and Randolph unexpectedly died.  
> The rejected letter to the Crown he mentioned was actually a petition, [The Olive Branch Petition, which you can read about from the New York Public Library](https://www.nypl.org/blog/2015/06/30/olive-branch-petition) and he said about the whole thing; "There is but one word in the paper, Mr. President, of which I do approve, and that is the word 'Congress'" after John Dickinson said he wanted to remove the word, worried it would offend the King (Smith, 1978, Book; 'Benjamin Harrison and the American Revolution'). While the writing for it began in Spring when Alfred would have been around, it only actually arrived at the King's door sometime after July, so I've taken a small liberty in writing about the timing of his reaction there!
> 
> lol you don’t have to remember any of these guys’ names they’re just there for some historical trivia + helping Alfred stay up to date. 
> 
> And I think you all know who Franklin, Jefferson, Washington, and John Adams are, but they were all present at these meetings too at one point or another haha. The pamphlet that Jefferson wrote that established his reputation as a good writer and influenced their forcing him to write the declaration can be read through the [Library of Congress](https://www.wdl.org/en/item/117/)
> 
> Also, notice how nobody is speaking about independence yet? The people of America at this time in history still all believe this conflict to be a state of ‘Civil War’, as do the people of Great Britain as well...  
> Well, that is until that measly thought of independence surfaces around in the Colonies with some serious intent a bit later on in the year of our Lord 1776…
> 
> But for now, Thanks again for reading!!  
> I love comments <3 <3
> 
> see you soon :D !!


	26. The year was 1776

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> loooooooooooooooooooooooooong boi

It had been an entire year since the last time Alfred was at this place, but he’d always known he’d make his way back here somehow.

He was in the stable, hopping off of Peggy. He’d taken her in the middle of the night, as he’d done before. Nobody knew. Not even Missy. But he was sick and tired, and so he had to do something.

It was sickly here, and it was hot and sticky. The heat drained him and exhausted him woefully. Not to mention his organs would not stop screaming out shots of pain and his mind was constantly buzzing and bothering him with conflicts.

But none of those trivial things could compare with the real reason behind his uninhibited unravelling. The reason why he was here again.

A lot had changed over the past few months. Or rather, nothing at all had changed when it had ought to.

He wiped the sweat on his brow as he let Peggy drink the last drops of water left within his canteen. He let out a heavy breath, rubbing his tummy. He was starving, and he was hurting. That horse ride hadn’t been too kind to him, especially in his horribly sorry state. But he didn’t care.

He hadn’t seen Arthur in forever. Once upon a time, he was so excited. He arrived home with the news of strange stories from different people, and of better freedoms promised to them in Pennsylvania, only to hear another type of news right as he opened the door. Devastating news.

Arthur wasn’t there anymore.

His unwavering empire had been ordered out by some old angry men in red. It was hasty and it was without warning, and everyone said Arthur was the most outraged out of them all.

It was so bizarre. How did they track him down like that? How did they do it? He was under cover!

Did they find out who he really was? Had some curious soldier followed him home one day, found his house and reported it as suspicious? Had they gone through some old record system, and found out he was England through there? Or were they tracking David or Missy, and they just happened to find him along the way?

But why did they need to take him in like that? He was already working with them! And he only just got back home… They didn’t even give him a second to breathe! Why so soon, so suddenly, and right at his own door at that? There must have been some reason…

Alfred could still remember exactly how he felt hearing that news. That stab in his chest. It cut deeper than the constant pang in his gut. He was lost. He was confused and alone. He remembered sitting down on the ground, resting after travelling for so long, only to be sent off on a new hike all in his head. A completely new journey to take and to understand; one he hadn’t welcomed in the slightest. He hid his face behind his hands. He cried.

He tried chasing after him, but out of everyone who could have stopped him, it was Missy who gripped him tight and ordered him to stay.

“It’s far too dangerous, Alfred.” She had a sympathetic look in her eyes, and Alfred had no choice but to reluctantly relax and listen to her carefully chosen words.

At least, _back then_ he listened.

“Mr Kirkland said so himself. It is bad enough they have taken him away indefinitely. If they find you as well in your sickly condition, who knows how that will end. No, all we can do now is pray no man in his presence has enough malice to speak to the higher ranks about him, assuming they don’t already know. We don’t want either of you sent back to Great Britain and speaking to the King, now do we?”

It left Alfred infuriated, and it left him heartbroken. It left him embarrassed, and it left him scared. Matthew tried to hug him, to comfort him. David tried to pray with him, to help him accept. He was expected to rest and heal and stay at home as Arthur worked hard out there, trying to fix this mess on his behalf. And Arthur expected him to just sit by and let it all happen. Without lifting a finger.

Just stay home. Just rest. That was his job. It’s what he wanted from Alfred. _It’s what he needed from him_. Alfred needed to stay home and wait. It’s what a good colony would do, and what a good colony _should_ do.

Alfred gave Peggy a little pat, blushing bright and bold and stubborn as he remembered his past shame.

He watched over time as a number on the year switched from five to six. There were no letters, no messages in forever. What had happened? Had Arthur run into all the wrong people? Was he hurt? God forbid, had he been sent back across the Atlantic? Or was he simply too busy to answer them? There was no contact, none at all. No, not until Missy came home one day with a rumor and a soft smile on her face.

“ _He’s safe_ ,” she said, “ _just overworked_.” The sound of her voice still rang clear inside his head. “ _Maybe he’ll return home by around mid-September. Finally… Wouldn’t that be good, Alfred?_ ”

September! Alfred could have screamed. He gripped tight onto his piano rock when he heard that. It was some made-up tune that he was playing, that he was inventing, but forgot it all in an instant.

_By mid-September!_

God… God, that felt like waiting through the entire lifespan of a human at that point!

He took the rope and tied Peggy nice and tight to one of the pillars, waving at her and saying a little goodbye as he made his way out. He exited the building, immediately halting as he squinted his eyes and covered his face from the blasting heat. As moments passed and he got used to the brightness, he put his hands down a little, revealing the very place he was after.

There it was, exactly how he remembered it – except only now, he knew its name. The Pennsylvania State House.

It was a pretty amusing thought, though, to think that out of all the places the redcoats were stationed in his land, there were none guarding this place, this House painted in a boldly brownish red with a little topping of white. Hah, it was as if they had given up in this part of town.

If only they could give up in other places too. Alfred sighed and he shook his head in anger. The overarching arms of the army still remained locked around him, in some agonizing embrace known as an unwelcome occupation.

Meanwhile he and Arthur were forced apart, and they were not to see each other at all. They were far from being together forever as Arthur had always promised. They were miles away from having a happy ending, as Arthur would often say he deserved.

That was what _burned_ Alfred inside more than any petty organ failure could. He was so desperate to see it change, to see it the other way around. To be in Arthur’s embrace and as far away from occupation as he could.

He’d been desperate for change for a long time… but ever since those dreams… that meditation. That show of a cycle of change and formation and different times and how he’d evolved over the years. He wanted to change again. He thrived on the idea of it.

He held his head high as he crossed the street. Not only was he surrounded by personal problems now, but also the problems of these people in the streets as well. By working in this House, he felt like he was finally able to interact with his people too, and not only feel but also see the things they do and say with his own two eyes. It made it all feel more real to him… And after so long doing nothing but meditating, it was such a heavenly thing to feel.

He was so glad to have kept a good line of contact with Baptiste. For every little detail of events he and his colleagues would share with Alfred, he found his own heart would be pumping with even more passion than ever before. It was such an exciting thing to feel.

He also stayed in contact with the delegates of _his_ Congress right ahead of him. After all, it was _his_ Congress to stay in contact with. He had the rights to it, as they assured him so. It felt like they told him everything. It was exhilarating. And every time he heard something new, good or bad, he found his conviction was never one to falter. It was such a secure thing to feel.

But some of the news was shocking too. Sometimes he would read a bout of news freshly handed to him, and he could simply feel how his eyes would widen as he read it out to himself…

His mind switched to politics as he rewound time again.

It was only a mere month after he left the House and returned back home, way back in 1775, last year. A Mr John Adams, one of the men he couldn’t meet on the day, nominated Mr George Washington to become Commander-in-Chief. That was, if the continent were to ever create an official army for itself… For Alfred’s cause.

An army. A _full-on_ army. Alfred rubbed his forearm as he looked around the open street. It was an idea he was somewhat scared of when he first heard it, but now it was something he clung onto so tight.

The Continental Army was long established now. Its origins could be traced back to several forces banded together in Boston and Cambridge. Mr Washington… or _General_ Washington made his acceptance speech a day after being appointed. Alfred read a written recording of it that Baptiste handed to him himself. It was nice. He declined having a salary for it. That was nice.

The feelings he got only one day later weren’t so nice though. It was seventeen days into June, and the year was 1775. He felt it all throughout his body, the Battle of Bunker Hill. His party lost, and many were killed and even more were wounded. The Charleston Peninsula was captured by British forces. It was a setback, and a large one at that. It served to enrage him so.

That rage, shared with his people, ended up giving Washington the power to build a naval force. That force would battle the British, take down supply ships, and fight to defend the New England coast, and to retake long lost places from overrule and occupation.

It was not long after that when Alfred heard his King had declared him in a state of rebellion. Now, supposedly, he was an official traitor to the Crown.

A traitor, huh? What could that man do? Catch him? Hang him? He could rip his Colonies to shreds if he wanted to, but that could only ever happen if he managed to take him down first.

Alfred entered the House. There was another debate being held in here, and he could hear it already. Baptiste had reached out to him again, saying that it was going to be big. That he couldn’t miss it. It was going to bring about answers… answers like just how this conflict was going to end.

The day was May 10th, 1776. The exact same day these meetings commenced the year before. Alfred walked through the house, and he stared at the wall as he froze suddenly, hearing noise coming from the room around the corner. One could tell the door was wide open without even looking.

He took in a deep breath. He was ready for any answer. He was ready for this. He’d run away for this, but he’d never run away _from_ it. It was time for round two.

He made his way around the corner, and held himself with great resolution as he marched straight into the Assembly Room.

.

.

“If we are to pass this resolution, we will be pressuring any colony who does not have any inclination towards –”

“I object to that! There is a difference between pressuring and recommending.”

“Will you let me finish my sentence?”

“A custodial sentence, maybe. Because clearly that is something you deserve for your defamation of our cause.”

“May I remind you that not everyone in this room agrees with your causes.”

Alfred sat in distress on the fancy, nicely decorated wooden chair he’d been shown to and seated on as he watched the strange spectacle before him. He tilted his head, completely confused and concerned over whatever they were talking about.

A man passed him, and he stopped him and asked him, “excuse me, but would you mind getting a cushion or something, please?” He winced has he leaned forward, leaving his back untouched and his arms in his lap. He hated being asked to sit on wooden chairs.

“Oh, yes. I will get you one as soon as I can,” the man quickly promised before walking away. But that was the fifth one he had asked so far. He knew none of them were going to get him any. They were too engaged in the discussion, just as much as he was.

But Alfred still didn’t know what they were talking about.

“It is merely a recommendation. We must state it, in order to make our intentions clear. All colonies with a government sympathetic towards the movement for independence should be considered more favorable than any others in this Congress.”

Alfred froze. Despite the hot air all around him, it was one of the most heated days in Philadelphia he’d ever known since the records were introduced… He felt ice cold from the complete shock and utter bewilderment.

Independence… _Independence_ independence?

“How would that work?” Alfred asked to himself very quietly, and suddenly all eyes were on him. “How would independence work?”

“As simply as it sounds, Alfred.” He heard a voice, and it was speaking to him so simply. So slow and plain in its delivery. But still, it sounded so far away. “The action of secession. A full and absolute withdrawal from living life under the Crown. Complete self-autonomy in one’s own governance. Independence.”

Alfred didn’t hear much else that day. He couldn’t. His mind was too busy, stuck on that one echoing word that wouldn’t stop rebounding.

 _Independence_.

He shivered in his seat. It felt so frosty all around, so frozen, all of a sudden.

In all his life, he’d never really considered that word to resonate with his reality. All his thoughts, they’d always flown in a certain direction, the cool current always moving him towards it, but every time he’d come too close to the thought, he’d lunge himself headfirst out of that canoe. He didn’t know why. Maybe it was the fear of rapids, or currents, or any other bad rides that would come with the territory.

But did he… did he want that sort of thing for himself? For his reality? Did he want that idea to be propelled and pursued for the sake of his people? Did _they_ want it for themselves?

He couldn’t tell.

He could barely take it.

He stood up abruptly, nearly overturning the chair in the process. He quickly hurried out the room. A few men calling out for him, concerned, but he left them sizzling away in the stuffy heat unanswered.

He was too desperate for some fresh air _now_.

.

.

It had been a few days, and Alfred had time to calm down. Every morning he’d walk out, and stroll along the street silently. He would stand at the edge of all the human chaos, close his eyes and smile as he simply felt the breeze blow through his hair. Some leaves would fly past him, carried by the wind, and they would catch his eye every now and again. He would have little dreams where he was small enough to ride them, like one of Arthur’s little fairies. He sure wished he were small enough to fly away, sometimes.

He sighed as he leaned against a wall. The wind always knew exactly how to help him relax. It certainly helped combat the hot weather in the air, and it blew away the numbness he’d feel in his frozen face as well. Yes, the wind was nice. It both cooled him down and warm him up.

He felt a strange new presence beside him, and he turned to see John Adams standing there.

“Mr Adams,” he said with a quiet smile, shifting to make more room for him. The others said he was an obnoxious and overall disagreeable man, but Alfred had hardly ever spoken to him enough to approve of such a harsh judgement. It seemed so cruel and hasty, after all.

“Alfred.” The man tried to bow down a bit and show him some reverence, rather awkwardly and out of place at that, with a middle-aged man seeing a child as the higher being. It made Alfred laugh a little at him. “How are you feeling now? Are you ready to come back in?”

He sighed, growing serious again. He looked out and around at all his people. The trees. The pet dogs, the cats, the horses. The carts and carriages well built by good craftsmen. Women with umbrellas. Children holding hands. God, how he loved his people.

“I don’t know,” he nearly whispered, contemplating his next few words. He didn’t know if this man valued honesty. “I think I’m too scared to go back in.”

“And why would that be?”

Alfred looked down. He kicked a rock, and it _thumped_ back into the dirt, spraying a small cloud of dust into the air. “I don’t know.” He looked around the street again, doing everything he can to avoid eye contact with him. “It’s a really hot day today, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.” Alfred found he liked Mr Adam’s voice. It was strangely unique, although often tinged with annoyance and sarcasm while in the Assembly Room. “Another thing to write down in our records. A new plot of data that will excite all our eager scientists. Glorious, isn’t it?”

Alfred smiled, and he finally looked up at him. He was shocked to be met with an expression of concern, and almost something paternal. Or maybe he was simply seeing the only things he’d been wanting to.

“You are frightened about the topic we are currently discussing, are you not?”

Alfred shifted uncomfortably. “I would say the proper word would be ‘arguing’ more than a mere discussion, Mr Adams.”

Oh, what was that? He nearly just got that man to laugh! He smiled a little as he watched Mr Adams clear his throat.

“Yes, I would say so. But remember, there are many points of discussion that are necessary to address in the face of such an argument. Whether or not our ideas are just. If they are safe in practice…”

“Do you think independence is just?” Alfred asked. He didn’t know if it was. He was simply asking.

Mr Adams watched him for a moment, and then his eyes trailed off his face as his expression changed to one deep in thought. “Do you read often, dear boy? I know your literacy is very well intact, you read the letters of our delegates with great ease.”

“I think I read often,” Alfred nodded. “I’ve read a lot of philosophy. I liked John Locke the most… and Arthur used to recite the Magna Carta for me, I liked that too.”

“Arthur? May I ask who that is?”

Alfred took a sudden step back. _Oh shit_.

“That’s… that’s… umm.” He ran a hand through his hair, and the wind blew it back in front of his face. He bit his lip. He was caught out. There was no use in lying or saying something else.

“He’s England…” He said slowly. But no, no no no! He was supposed to say _Mr England!_ He had to call him that! To show him some respect. He had to abide by his duty, as he was nothing but a series of colonies for him…

Wasn’t he?

Alfred crossed his arms and looked away.

“He means a great deal to you.” Mr Adams said it so bluntly.

Alfred looked up at the sky, watching it skim just over some bright green trees. Blue and Green. They were always found together out in nature. He wished that were true for him and Arthur too.

“Yes, he does.”

There was a loud sigh, and Alfred noticed Mr Adams was leaning against the wall as well. “So… John Locke is your favourite? With also, the addition of the Magna Carta.”

“And Anne Hutchinson’s sermons too.” Alfred felt himself smiling again. “She would always teach me about how my faith was my own, and not the Church’s. No governing body should ever have any control over a person’s soul or their faith,” he sighed as he repeated her words. “I miss her sometimes.”

Mr Adams seemed completely and utterly astounded. “To think you were alive in that time…” He shook his head. “Your life is a wondrous gift from God, dear Alfred.”

“Is it?” Alfred asked, unsure. “I feel like watching humans age is a curse.”

“Maybe. I will not be bold enough to declare your statement untrue. I have no proper comprehension for how it would feel to live for so long, so I cannot make any judgements for you. However, I do believe there are some blessings to be recognized in living such a life. You are able to see ideas evolve. How people change. You learn the best ways your people can be governed based on observing their own nature, era after era. You have the chance to seek a greater understanding and respect for truth that no human ever could.”

Alfred listened to him silently, wondering if all that were true. He felt his eyes begin to sting for some reason.

“So… John Locke and the Magna Carta, and Mrs Hutchinson as well. They all share at least one thing in common, and that is their search for truth. All sober inquirers after truth, ancient and modern, pagan and Christian, have declared that the happiness of man, as well as his dignity, consists in virtue. Confucius, Zoroaster, Socrates, Mahomet, not to mention authorities really sacred, have agreed in this. Thus, you could make the conclusion that the pursuit of happiness, and the dignity of every human being, are both inherent truths formed in the natural world that cannot be shaken.”

Mr Adams reached into on of his pockets, and he held out a paper with scribbled writing all over it. “Here,” he said, handing it over to Alfred, and letting him browse over it. “I have drafted this. It advises that we throw off all our oaths and allegiances to the King and all of his pawns, for we as the people of these Colonies should have the right to pursue our own happiness and pass our own laws, and we shall reserve the right to uphold our own dignity in self-governance.”

Alfred looked up at him when he finished, his mouth and eyes both open wide. He read the proposition date at the top, the 15th of May. This was already a reality. Mr Adams was going to submit this today.

“You have already been acting independently for a century before this,” Mr Adams continued.

That was true. “Salutary neglect,” Alfred whispered as he nodded, understanding.

“Is it not about time we have this written down into the walls of our very own Congress? This is a chance for us to change the way you are run, dear country! If you walk back into that room, you can sit in and listen to these discussions. You can give your consent, and you can deny other things. You can convince us to go forward with this independence idea, to have us vote and declare it to the King. Think of it, boy! A government that abides by all these ideals you agree with. A government that does not obey laws that come from so far away across the sea, but rather over here. From people who live here, from those who have made this land their home.”

Alfred felt his heart flutter. He closed his eyes and smiled, content. Change. So this was the change he was being offered; the proposal of independence. The next step in his life for his people. He hungered to see them fed in peace with happiness and prosperity. He longed for his meditations to be returned to some nonviolent stability. But most of all, he wanted their rights to be honored. If independence from the King could give him that…

Alfred tilted his head as he examined Mr Adams for a while. He was wearing a brownish-red, much like the color of the State House itself. He held himself upright, and he didn’t seem upset at all, like he always did in the Assembly Room. He didn’t seem so dislikeable out here in the wind. Nor when he spoke so dearly of something he clearly cared about.

Alfred smiled softly as he nodded low enough for it to be mistaken as a bow. “Let us return to the debate, then…”

Mr Adams smiled – the first time Alfred had ever seen the some forty-year-old smile! He guided his country back inside, wary for all of Alfred’s pains and grumpy that he dared run outside and risk himself more harm.

He walked him around the corner, and they were immediately exposed to the sound of men arguing.

“We cannot completely break away in such a manner! Think of the shattered kinship! The familial bond between our peoples will never be the same! We will never revive our loving bond with England. Our brotherhood shall be severed forever!”

Alfred’s hands immediately gripped tight around Mr Adams’ arm. He let go as soon as the man started hissing out in pain.

A break from his bond with England. A sever in his relationship with Arthur! He hadn’t even… He was so focused on the King!

He just hated the King! He hated British Parliament! He wanted them to go. That didn’t mean his relations with Arthur would snap… did it?

How would this affect his own life with Arthur…

“This argument is not about the union we have with Great Britain. That is something that may be maintained and re-established long after this conflict is forgotten. No, this is an argument on _principle_. These are our values we are fighting for, dear Sir! These are the virtues we uphold. The sentiments of America. Will you fight for your beliefs, or for your relationships with those who trample on them?”

The man speaking ended his little talk with a little huff, and he turned to sit down on his chair, making unexpected eye contact with Alfred along the way. He looked shocked and surprised, but also very pleased to see his return, bowing his head in acknowledgement.

 _Who was that?_ Alfred wondered. He couldn’t remember any of their names very well. He might have been Jefferson, but Alfred wasn’t so sure.

Another man started speaking, and Alfred noticed with a sudden shock that he wasn’t speaking to anyone in the room but him. It rocked him to the core. “We do not have to lose our loving ties with the people of Great Britain. It is well known we need each other for many purposes such as trade. They will have no choice but to forgive our decisions and remain cordial with us after this conflict passes.”

A laugh then sounded throughout the room. One that Alfred could never forget. He turned to see Mr Franklin smiling from his seat, just before he chimed in and said himself, “in that case, voting for independence would be even more desirable than previously thought! Alfred, wouldn’t you rather be seen as an equal to your allies and your trading partners?”

Alfred gulped, uncertain. But then he slowly started nodding. That didn’t seem so bad. In fact, that sounded like something he wanted. Something he may have been craving, even. He felt himself relax a whole lot more, and he let himself rest against the wall beside the window, where a little breeze was still coming in.

“But would the people of England see it that way?” A condescending voice sounded before Mr Franklin dismissed it with a wave of his hand.

“Oh, that is not something we should bother the boy with now, should we?” He chuckled before winking at Alfred, who raised an eyebrow. “Who knows. Maybe you could even convince the personification of England that honoring a King on top of the government is an outdated system altogether. Them, you could revolutionize your governments together…”

A few men in the room snickered and laughed at that quietly, but Alfred sat himself forward. Could he convince Arthur to do that? Could he have a revolution alongside England’s hand? Standing beside Arthur, fighting for the same thing…

He could do it! He could try! They could get rid of the King for good, just if Alfred could convince him to do so… No more cycles of evil, just them and their people, together forever… It all felt so perfect.

Alfred found himself smiling with rosy cheeks as he leaned back onto the wall, sighing soundly as he thought up his own heaven.

Until a new voice snapped him back to reality.

“You keep looking across the Atlantic! How about observing over here, for a change? Fighting for independence will change the face of this war! These united Colonies against the Crown, but then how are we to continue? Are we to divide up again into pieces after this war is finished?”

A series of shouts filled the room, some in agreement and concern, others of dismissal and anger.

“Oh, calm down! Calm down!” Mr Franklin managed to shut them all up, still seated on his chair. “Why is this such a dramatic stance to take all of a sudden? This is not the first talk we have had over the possibility of becoming one entity! Remember the Albany Plan?”

The series immediately turned into a chorus of shoot downs and near-violent irritation.

“Come on, now! Come on! It is destiny for these states to be united! See, there is only one boy standing here with us!”

“If you have heard,” one more man tried to keep the crowd less heated. “Have you heard of the plan set out by the Virginia Convention? There has been a call for us to declare independence, and form a confederation of these provinces. These states. These United States. That shall be how this union may be run after this conflict concludes.”

“I like that,” Alfred said suddenly, surprising even himself with how swift he spoke. All eyes were on him, and he refused to waver. “I agree with become some sort of… as you said, a united confederation. A series of united states.”

He hadn’t really had a name for it until now, but he knew it was always how he had felt. So it must be something he should pursue. As Mr Franklin had said, at the very least it was his destiny. And at the very most, it was the work of God’s right hand.

But it didn’t seem to be news well received by many of the men. A lot defended him, yes. But those who are angry often shout louder than those quiet ones trying to soothe others.

Alfred took a couple steps towards the door, his back still on the wall. He eyed it nervously as he remembered Arthur’s words to him… After his whole tea-dumping fiasco. He hugged himself, thinking he finally understood that look of loss in his eyes.

The men turn on each other instead of him, hurling insults across the room and tossing turbulence all throughout the air. Politics was always like that, some hot and angry contest between different factions fighting for power. Alfred had no idea which side would win, nor could hear which side was winning.

Was he ready to deal with that forever, as a nation, the way Mr Franklin once addressed him?

Could he do that?

“How would we form our government, if we were unified?”

He took in a deep breath as he felt the room calm itself down, yet in no way did it _cool_ down just yet. At least, he could finally hear individual sentences again. Maybe there was some hope in working with this Congress, after all.

“Well, he would become a single republic, obviously,” said one man from the back.

“Yes! A grand republic! One that votes for its own leaders, as the Romans once did.”

Alfred made his way back to the window and resettled himself, fanning his face with his hand as he rested once again on the wall right next to the breeze.

Voting for a leader, huh? That sounded fun. But also very stressful.

He marveled at the sight of the crowd, excited to see how they would react. But then he noticed it himself… He narrowed his eyes at that last comment made. As the Romans once did…

“Is that supposed to be convincing? That is a terrible comparison! Rome collapsed into the tyranny of empire! Are we to subject him to a republic like that? The boy wouldn’t even last a hundred years with a system like that!”

Alfred pursed his lips. That was a pretty good point. But also a funny point. He found himself trying to smother his laughter. This was starting to get a lot more fun, now that they were calm enough to structure their disputes rather than have a mere shouting match.

“That is only because they were too lenient in who they gave their power to. Keep in mind, the Dutch have lived with a very successful republic for…” Mr Franklin spun around on his chair to look at everyone in the room. “How many years, now?”

“About one hundred and ninety… something,” one of them tried to respond.

“Ninety-five,” another corrected with a quick raise of the hand.

“One hundred and Ninety-five!” Mr Franklin clapped his hands together. “There we go… As I was saying, if you are so concerned about Roman-esque corruption, then I say we look to them and observe their methods.”

“So… You are suggesting we can watch and learn from them?” Alfred asked. He felt his heart pounding. He knew his face was smiling. That sounded like a great idea! It was a stable plan. He felt more sturdy already.

“Yes! Exactly, boy!”

Then all of a sudden, the men were all agreeing with one another, and there was an explosion of smiles all around the room. Alfred was glad to have seen it, because it was such a quick and short-lived event to see.

Since, of course, the Devil’s advocates in the crowd swiftly moved on to another prickly topic to disagree over.

“I will still not sign any declaration, if this Congress dares to vote for such a thing. This rebellion will be crushed! We shall end up ashamed of ourselves – and in complete and utter defeat – if we are to continue on this crusade. Think of how the Jacobite cause has been smothered over the years! We will be treated just the same!”

“Mr Dickinson,” Mr Adams snapped back with a sharpened tongue, “as much as I appreciate your impassioned response to my proposals, and those of Mr Jefferson as well, you must keep in mind that we are _not_ Jacobites. We are the people who live on this American continent, and we are fighting for our own individual independent movement. We have different ideals, different advocacy, different strategies of implementation, _and_ not to mention – _mind you_ – a very different layout of geography and history to that of Scotland.”

Mr Dickinson shook his head. “I still believe this will most likely end up like the Jacobite cause!”

“Well that is an opinion you may have and express, but it is not one I find very viable.”

“Watch the time, good sirs.” A man from Massachusetts made it clear. “Remember our agreement, we are to receive his blessing today or not at all.”

Alfred stood forward. “You mean I must make my choice today?” He asked, bewildered. He fiddled with his fingers. That was a big load to take on.

“No,” Mr Franklin assured him. “If you must take your time, then you may.” He said it clearly, but there were still some grumbles from behind him.

Alfred shook his head. No, they wanted an answer. He’d already been here five days. He had heard their arguments. He was expected to give the go-ahead or not. It was about time.

He looked around the room. Some of the men were wearing nice colors. Some wore purple, some wore almost a golden color. Some were in black, others were in white. They disagreed over little things all day, and when the big issues came they argued like madmen.

Alfred got to know them much better this time around, but he still didn’t know every single one of them very well at all. He still couldn’t recall all of their names.

But his people, at least… he liked to think he knew his people well. He was their guardian angel, their… their _nation_ , after all.

Alfred nearly shivered. The thought of being a nation of his own was still such a wild prospect.

But then he thought back about home.

He thought about Deborah. He thought about the kingdoms formed in her mind. He thought about who felt her loss the most, her beautiful parents who sometimes worked the worst hours in the world just to support their home.

He thought about all those French henchmen he hated… Oh, minus Baptiste. And he supposed France himself wasn’t too bad… He just… Got in Alfred’s space quite a bit down near Alamance Creek.

And then he thought of Arthur. _Arthur_. His beautiful Magna Arthur; his great big bear. His home. The one who co-wrote a new charter with him. The one who was there for the signing of the real Magna Carta. The nation who gave him gifts in the form of books by John Locke, and the immigration of Anne Hutchinson.

Arthur was the source of all of his ideals. He’d always love the things that Arthur would tell him, and teach him, and continue to say to him. His talks of peace… and his talks of freedom… Those were the two things that would always reach Alfred the fastest.

Because Alfred’s people… They thrived in times of self-reliance! They just loved to be left alone to develop themselves. Living in peace and in freedom, just as Arthur always said, those are the things his people have eternally wanted. They liked living independently. They liked living in that age-old neglect, that one where Alfred lived for decades and no foreign army needed to rule over him.

Alfred knew they’d be fine. He also knew, without a doubt, that a tooth and nail fight for independence would mean the modes of battle would shift. It would no longer be a civil war. The people’s attitude would shift, they wouldn’t see it that way anymore.

Alfred would no longer be in so much constant pain.

He looked around the room one more time. He looked at the face of every man there. He now knew what his options were. He knew he wanted change. All of a sudden, it became the most obvious choice in the world.

“If Congress wishes to host a vote on whether or not independence is the path that I should take…” He took in a deep breath, and he was ready. “Then you have my blessing to do so.”

.

.

By the time July came around, Alfred was able to sneak out and find his way to Congress again. He smiled to himself as he read the paper on his way. He was getting pretty good at sneaking off into the night. Maybe he should become a spy or something.

Congress had finally come up with some resolution, the Lee Resolution, as they called it. Alfred had it in his hands, and he had already read through it, and he knew he approved of it.

A vote for independence. That was the very thing he was travelling so far to see, if this Lee Resolution would pass through the vote and his fight would become one for independence.

Would Congress vote yes? Or would they vote no? Alfred didn’t know.

He certainly knew how the majority of Congress felt. They were prepared for a chorus of ‘ _yay_ ’s to be heard across the room, drowning out any opposing ‘ _nay_ ’ votes. But that wasn’t enough to pass the resolution. No, the vote had to be totally unanimous. And he didn’t know if that was possible.

Because one of the many reasons why the resolution had been postponed so many times, was the uncertainty of this result. In fact, the last time Alfred had asked about it, the vote was supposed to be on the first day of July. But that was yesterday, and now they were having it today. On the second day of July. Alfred couldn’t help but roll his eyes.

The room was quiet, tense and moody when he entered. He remained silent, standing at the back, but he did wave to a couple of men friendly enough to smile at him. A man offered him some water, and he accepted politely, and the voting began.

A man stood at the front. He read over a copy of the paper in his hands, and another man stood beside him ready to tally up the votes.

One by one, each colony was called. A representative would stand, and state the result of the vote by the delegates from there. It’d be repeated back to him for clarity, and then he would sit down.

“New Hampshire? Stand.”

“New Hampshire says yay.”

Just like that. Alfred smiled as the spokesman sat down, and vote was restated by the men at the front.

“Massachusetts?”

“Massachusetts says yay!”

“Massachusetts says yay,” the respondent said with a zealous tick, and the tally slowly started to count up.

“Rhode Island?”

“Haha! Oh, Rhode Island says yay…”

“Rhode Island says yay.”

There was a trial version of this vote before the real deal, Alfred had heard.

“Connecticut?”

“Connecticut says yay.”

“Connecticut says… yay.”

He’d been told South Carolina and Pennsylvania both voted in the negative. That shocked him so much he nearly could have laughed! He took a sip of his water.

“New York?”

“In absence of proper instructions for now, we abstain.”

“New York… is an abstention.”

He nearly coughed out his water. Well, that was his first abstention, but that was understandable. New York was still assessing its own consensus. He hoped it was the last to do so, however.

“New Jersey?”

“New Jersey says yay.”

Alfred raised an eyebrow. That one had a little attitude.

“New Jersey says yay...”

He still couldn’t believe Pennsylvania voted negative in that mock vote… Even Georgia had voted ‘ _yay_ ’ in that trial! With Mr Franklin and Mr Morris in Congress… He hadn’t known they were in the minority of their own province! Maybe they were able to convince the others to vote ‘ _yay_ ’ by now… But that was only something he could hope.

“Pennsylvania…”

Ohh… Here it was. The moment of truth. Alfred bit his lip and closed his eyes as he heard the creek of a chair in the distance.

“Pennsylvania says yay.”

Alfred opened his eyes wide as he smiled.

“Pennsylvania votes yay!” He cheered over the delegate speaking out at the front, who looked at him unamused as he spilled his water out the cup, but many of the men beside him simply laughed it off.

“Delaware,” the speaker sounded completely done.

Ahh… Delaware. Their vote was split in half during the trial vote. There were only two delegates there, and they disagreed.

“Delaware…” The man speaking sounded hesitant. “Says yay…”

The speaker sighed as he sat back down next to a man Alfred had learned was named Caesar Rodney. Mr Rodney had been sent for overnight in an effort to break Delaware’s tie. Huh. So it looked like he had come all this way to vote ‘ _yay_ ’ just as the rest had done. Alfred crossed his legs as he leaned up against the wall. What a wild effort for a single sentence. But it served his cause, so he kept quiet, at least.

The next few provinces flew by in rapid pace.

“Maryland says yay...”

Uh huh.

“Virgini –”

“Virginia says yay!”

Wow, that one was quick! Alfred had to stifle the second coming of his laugh.

North and South Carolina both voted “yay” out loud, one with a stern voice, the other one soft.

Then Georgia finished by calmly standing up. “Georgia says yay.”

“Georgia says yay…” The man at the front repeated before he shared a silent look with the tally marker, and then the two of them looked out to observe the army of expectant ears in the crowd.

“Well,” he said before he cleared his throat. “This here Second Continental Congress has voted in favor of the Lee Resolution to secede from the grip of the Crown and all that is his empire, with no opposing votes. Therefore, we have declared that our resolution for soothing Alfred’s agony is one of revolution, not appeasement. These United Colonies will become independent states!”

A roar of excitement erupted from a majority of the room. Some men flung papers around, others rested their heads on their desks in despair. There was some devastation, and some fear, but Alfred overlooked it as he felt the elated look of the room take him over and send him out of the House.

He didn’t know where he was going, he didn’t know where most of the men were going either, but eventually he found himself in a building with a lot of music and a lot of dancing people and a lot of barrels of alcohol everywhere.

Alfred spun around as he watched the rays of sunshine and the hay and the soft oranges and browns of the room all mashed together in a mess as people frolicked around and partied. He found himself giggling, then chuckling, then laughing freely as his spins turned to twirls, and he began dancing with a few ladies as well.

The night moved on. Many men were drunk on alcohol, the type that would burn his throat and make him feel sick, but he stuck to water.

He danced with a billion of his women, and he loved them all so much. Some were courteous, others were rambunctious. All wanted to have a good time. So did he.

He sung, he had fun! The crowd argued and partied and celebrated with each other. When the ladies left and the night was left to the men, they began singing and screaming profanities at each other. It was chaotic, and everyone’s cheeks were flushed. But Alfred was enjoying himself.

He cheered, he joined in, he sung too. And he swore too. He danced around some more. He felt drunk on happiness, something he hadn’t felt in so long.

The men of the Assembly Room gathered around. They spoke of their drunken hatred of the idea of ‘kings’ and of the parliament of Britain and of how the equality of man was paramount. They validated his hatred towards King George, and they comforted him as he started crying, and they made him smile again as they spoke of an independent future.

One man suddenly punched his shoulder playfully. “Hey! This is your coming-of-age celebration! You should have a drink!”

Alfred shook his head. “No, thanks.”

They gave him a bottle anyway. He pretended it was a telescope, gasping and asking about what was over there. Eventually got them to play party games with it, and they left him alone.

He felt so giddy. He skipped around the barn room, ball room, pub, cabin, whatever it was. Could the scent of alcohol make somebody drunk? He didn’t know. But suddenly he didn’t care. He was just having a good time.

A man burst through the door beside him, and he ran into him. The man looked deliriously happy, almost as happy and bouncy and playful as Alfred as he sat on the ground, dazed and astounded as to how such a little boy could knock him over.

Alfred leaned over him. “Oh! I’m so sorry!” He helped him up, and Alfred noticed the man had a paper on him.

“Look at this!” The man cheered, shoving it into his face. “Look at this, boy!” Then he shouted out to the partying crowd. “Look at this, everyone! Look at the thing they’ve written in the Pennsylvania Evening Post…”

Alfred took the paper from him and read the words out loud for him. “This day… the Continental Congress declared the United Colonies Free and Independent States…”

He gasped as he dropped the paper and looked out to the crowd. They were all listening to him, waiting for his response.

“I think they’ve skipped a step; we haven’t really declared it yet.” A small voice suddenly sounded from the back, impatient, and a few men spoke out in agreement.

Alfred simply laughed at that. But once he started laughing, he found he couldn’t stop. It was the most liberating experience he’d ever felt.

So, he danced with his people all through the rest of the night, feeling their energy, their excitement, and their love, and he shared his own feelings with them too. He partied so hard, he slept through most of the third day of the month, something he had no idea if he’d regret later. But what day would ever be more important to him than the 2nd of July?

Oh well, there was always the meeting on the fourth he could go to, and he could catch up with what he’d missed then and there.

.

.

The final wording for their public declaration on independence was approved on the 4th of July. John Hancock, the President of Congress, handed Alfred the fair copy, which he had signed with Mr Thomson by his side, attesting to that fact.

Mr Thomson, the Secretary of Congress. Alfred gave him a good look over. He was the man who’d given that speech before the crowd about the fate of the Lee Resolution. He was the one to do the call and response all throughout the vote. He was the man who announced to Alfred that he would be independent, if this war were to ever end in his favor.

It was about time Alfred learned and remembered his name. Same for Mr Hancock, too.

“There is an Irishman. His name is Mr Dunlap. We have secured a printing contract with him, and we expect him to reproduce this copy of our declaration as many times as soon as possible.” Mr Hancock said to Alfred as he pointed at the document now in his hands. “You will go with him to help him in the speed of this process.”

Alfred blinked a couple of times, looking up to meet Mr Hancock in the eyes. “Me?” He shuffled on his feet. “You want me to help him reprint this?”

“Yes. It will help you become more familiar with it, since you weren’t present with us yesterday.”

He narrowed his eyes at that, glaring at the paper. While he did appreciate the chance to go over and read his own declaration asserting independence… he couldn’t help but feel like… a little boy getting tasked with all the minor errands of the household.

“I appreciate the offer, but I have no training in the art of printing.” He tried to hand the fair copy back.

“No, no. He will be able to teach you. Please, we will all appreciate. It will make his job much easier.”

Alfred thought for a moment. He didn’t know if he liked the idea. He didn’t want to be coerced into it. But he did like the idea of helping the man, if it seemed like he would struggle.

“I’ll do it,” he said finally, nodding. He was willing to help that man with his printing, although he still felt a little sour about it. His complacency rang a few bells in the back of his head, the little version of himself in those dull Puritan clothes shouting out, telling him to get a grip. To be more careful with himself. He never knew when he’d start getting abused again, and that thought put him on edge.

“Excellent. I should see you on your way by this evening.”

Alfred did in fact, see Mr Hancock while he was on his way out to the printing house. He was grateful to hear that his President had appointed the Committee of Five – the five men in charge of writing his declaration – to come with him and supervise the printing while he was there. That at least, made him feel a little relaxed.

“Do you know how broadsides are supposed to look, Mr Adams?” He asked the man as they walked together, far ahead of the three committee members walking at a normal man’s pace, and a lifetime ahead of the slow and stalling, waddling Mr Franklin.

“A broadside?”

“Yes, Mr Hancock said he wanted broadsides printed. I don’t know how they’re supposed to appear on the paper.”

“Oh, that is simple. A broadside is like a poster. They’re usually used for an advertisement or a very important announcement. Everything on the paper is printed on one side only.” He used his hands in the air to demonstrate, as if putting up a broadside on the tree they were walking past. “See?”

Alfred nodded, and he found himself smiling at the beauty of the tree. “Oh, yes. I see,” he said idly. The leaves were such a pretty dark green. He wondered if Arthur would love them.

Arthur. He bit his lip as he continued walking, silent and ignoring Mr Adams’ concerned stares. He missed Arthur. He wondered if it would be wise to give him one of the broadsides. Would it hurt him?

Alfred wasn’t sure. Maybe if he explained it to him before giving it to him… Then he could convince Arthur to take his side, and they could declare independence together! They could both leave the Crown behind. Both England and the United Colonies could become independent republics… They could be free of their trauma, at last. It was a lovely thought to have. A dreamland, a heaven on Earth.

He started feeling a little better by the time they entered Mr Dunlap’s workshop. The men behind him explained to Mr Dunlap what they wanted, and Alfred handed the fair copy over to him. He read over it, and he nodded.

“I’m going to need a helping hand,” he said with a thick and youthful Irish accent. “With four hands on this job, we could produce about two hundred or more.”

Alfred beamed. “Yeah! That’s why I am here,” he said as he waved his hands about. “I’m Alfred, and I’m here to help you.”

Mr Dunlap put one hand on his hip, and the other, he held out to him. Alfred supposed he intended to shake his hand or something, but when he reached his out to clasp it, he was shocked to discover the man had grabbed it and started inspecting it instead.

“Mmm,” he said as he leaned back and fiddled with the quill he had in his pocket. It made Alfred crave his piano rock, but he didn’t bring it with him this time. He snuck out in too much of a haste.

“You have nimble fingers. You should be good for the job.”

And a job it certainly was.

The Committee of Five did nothing but sit and complain and give commentary, which Alfred paid attention to, but Mr Dunlap somehow magically managed to ignore. The things they would say were funny, and Alfred would find himself laughing at their bickering a bit too often. That was, because every so often Mr Dunlap would snap his fingers before his face, and hiss at him a few things.

“Remember, I’m setting type right now. So be quiet!”

“You have to correct that one… No, no. That is a mistake. Don’t you see?”

“Run off these broadside sheets while I finish off the last cuts for this one…”

Alfred found himself thoroughly enjoying the experience. And by the smiles on some of the delegates’ faces, he could tell they weren’t minding it so much either. _Some_ of them. The others looked bored out of their minds.

His fingers got messy. There was ink _everywhere_. Somehow, it even got on his face, which made Mr Dunlap stop and roll his eyes. He smiled and laughed, and used some extra paper to finger paint a few bunnies and one or two lions, and a bear! Ohh boy, a bear! _Roar!_ Haha… He sure made the most of his experience, and he laughed and he played and he smiled.

Sooner or later, the clock ticked and the stars spun enough for the night to pass over, and it was daylight again after one whole night of a heavy-loaded workout.

“Do we really have Mr Hancock’s signature replicated on every single broadside we’ve made?” Alfred asked after he let out a big yawn he hid behind his hand. It finally got to that time when his fingers started stinging. He was ready to finally get some rest.

“Yes, we do.” Mr Dunlap sighed and dismissed him as he gave that little paper in his hand just one more intense observation. It had Mr Hancock’s genuine signature written on it in his venturous and way too over-the-top handwriting. Mr Dunlap was inspecting it for one last time, checking whether or not he got it down perfectly. “Why don’t you take a look for yourself?”

He picked up a whole stack of broadsides, slamming them down onto the desk right beside him, and one of the delegates let out a little yelp as his head shot up from the desk, and his eyes went wide. Only then, was he wide awake.

“Do be more gentle with them,” Mr Adams barked at the printer. “We all eventually joined in with the production of these some two-hundred broadsides, and we were all in a haste. I would hate for all that time and effort to be of waste merely because you have torn some of them apart.”

Ahh. So this was Mr Adams’ infamous aggression. Well, Alfred couldn’t say he disagreed with the man. But Mr Dunlap certainly looked like he had one or two things to growl back at him. He didn’t, however, as he chose to keep those thoughts to himself.

“You lot said you had two days to distribute all of these around these newly united states, huh? Well, then I advise you to take all these broadsides and get the hell out of my workshop as soon as possible, then.” He snapped, and he left his own building with a trail of angry grumblings following from behind him.

“Damn,” Alfred whispered before turning to the delegates and telling them off. “You should learn to be more considerate of other people when they have just done you a massive favor!”

He stood up as he went through the pile of broadsides, reading some of the words. “‘We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness…’” Alfred sighed. Life, Liberty, and property. That was John Locke. Now a remnant of his ideas could be found in Alfred’s declaration.

That must have been the billionth time he’d read that document that night, but it still felt so fresh in his mind. He looked at their tacky printing job, laughing at himself along the way. He couldn’t tell which ones were his, they all did it with the same sort of energy. Every broadside was completed so quickly, with great haste and a dumb, dazed sense of excitement. Watermarks were reversed. Some of them were folded too eagerly, before the ink could properly dry, and the punctuation would vary from copy to copy. It was wild, and it was wacky, and no two copies were the same. But Alfred liked it. It reminded him a lot about himself, and about his…

His united states. United States. That’s what Mr Dunlap called him. He smiled as he thought of that name. He liked it. It was open enough to be dynamic, to take on any new identity he wanted it to. Yes, he liked that name very much.

He looked back at the big pile, and then he picked up the fair copy they’d used to replicate and create them with. He put it on the very top of the pile, completing it.

He didn’t know exactly how to do it, with so many copies hanging around. Or if doing the tradition would even work, with so many copies out there in existence. But he wanted to try.

Arthur had showed him how to do it with the Magna Arthur, their very own declaration of rights, so many years ago. So, Alfred wanted to try with this other declaration, _his_ declaration of independence.

He grabbed one of the cleaner-looking cutting tools, and he pricked his finger, discreetly letting the blood drop onto the original copy before rubbing it in, making sure none of the humans around could see what he had done.

There. He took a big breath in, and let a deep breath out. The declaration was sanctified. He’d done the little ritual. He’d blessed the whole pile. He smiled in satisfaction at his own handiwork.

“Now, Alfred.” One of the delegates stood beside him, trying his best to seem a little more awake. “You shouldn’t keep all your eggs in one basket.” He picked up a large chunk out of the pile, and held it in his hands.

“You should always make more than one pile of copies,” another delegate agreed, picking up his share as well. “You never know if something wrong will happen to the original.”

“Come now, let’s deliver these to our Congress. We have to get started on distributing these.”

Alfred laughed as he picked up his share too. “Yeah,” he agreed as started to make their way out together. “Sure thing!”

.

.

Alfred was hopping around each table, excitably revealing to each delegate a copy of the declaration. Some were happy to see it, others were unamused. Others were straight up drunk in the middle of Congress.

To be fair, there was a lot of alcohol consumed over the week, but Alfred hadn’t expected to see a bottle in the Assembly Room.

It meant that a few unwelcome comments made their way to Alfred’s ear.

“So you have abandoned your mother country, have you?”

Alfred frowned angrily as he glared at the man who was pointing rudely at him.

“That is alright! You are alright!” Every word that man said was slurred. “Sooner or later you will find your own feet to stand on! Hah, then you will never look back!”

Alfred rubbed at his eyes as he continued walking away. It made him feel disgusted. It made him feel disgusting. He tried to wash away the feeling by scraping and scratching at his arms. Jesus, sometimes he really hated the sight and scent of alcohol.

He thought if he left that one man alone, he could escape those sorts of comments. Boy, he was wrong.

“So? Have you ever met Britain? Or is it England? The British Empire? How does she look, eh? Is she wicked and ugly? Or is it a man? Is he fat? Always angry?”

“Overbloated from all that tax money he ungracefully robs and pockets away for his king?”

Alfred took a step back, and he rammed right into the desk behind him. He was horrified… he… he couldn’t stand hearing that sort of mentality.

He held out a hand to keep those men away, and he left as soon as he could, passing another room.

“How will this mere statement be of any use, anyway?” A certain voice sounded past the doorway. “It is in no way legally binding, and all it does is upset the vote for independence. It will cause too much social upheaval.”

“But it is still a statement that says this new nation rejects such things… in principle. It sets forth the expectation that we will go through with the gradual elimination of such matters.”

“Exactly! Gradual, gradual elimination! See, it does not need to be in here right now! It can be written somewhere it belongs far better. Within a later document… Either way, posterity may deal with our choices later.”

Alfred was about to walk right in there and ask about what they were talking about before a man grabbed his arm and blocked him from the entrance.

“Alfred, son. Why are you out of your chair? Are you not hurting? You must rest for us, dear boy! Keep your strength up for our revolution!”

Alfred’s eyes went from the hand on his arm to the man’s face and back. “No, I… I feel a lot better now, trust me,” he said as he tried to move his arm away. The man let go of him, and he spun around and walked away as soon as he could.

He didn’t understand that last conversation. That man in that room… he was speaking of social upheaval. Why was that such a dramatic thing to discuss? There was social upheaval right now in this moment! There was a war going on! What could be so bad to act upon that it would make this rebellion… No, this revolution more hectic? What were those men so scared of losing?

He ran a hand through his hair as he passed a few men pointing and laughing at him.

“So, you are a personification, yes? Can you die?” One asked, interested. Too interested.

“Yes. But we resurrect –”

“Like Jesus!”

Alfred mumbled in agreement. Cautiously. Nervously. On edge and rather annoyed.

“So you could be placed into battle, and you could become an unstoppable force!”

Alfred crossed his arms as he felt his chest tighten.

“How many redcoats do you think you’ll be able to kill?”

His mouth hung open. His eyes started to blur terribly. He felt the nausea creep in. Redcoats? Ar… Arthur was… Arthur was a _redcoat_. Arthur wore the uniform of a redcoat! Red, he wore red. So much red. Alfred saw red. Red hot blood. Murder. Oh, he was so frightened of the color red.

The tears ran down his face, and the man before him instantly turned from his boisterous bastardry as he tried to calm him down, looking both horrified and humiliated.

The man tried to put his hands on Alfred’s shoulders, but he whacked him away. “Why is it such an honor to you…” He said with pure fury as his inner mind battled. A part of him wished to run away, another part wanted to scream in his face. He could have screamed. He should have screamed. But he kept his tone dull and dark and filled with indignation. “Why is it such an honor to you to kill another human being? This war is not about murder, but about fighting for a cause!”

Alfred then took a step back. His mind had chosen flight. He was far too young to fight. He just simply shook his head as he spun around to walk away. He was too exhausted to run, and too exhausted to fight. So he just simply walked away.

This war was not about murder… was it? Alfred thought they’d all agreed they were fighting for a cause!

They were fighting for a cause, weren’t they? That was what Alfred had agreed upon!

Self-governance. Self-rule. Autonomy. A voice. Voting.

Fighting for the idea that counted… Because it was the idea that counted. Wasn’t it?

The words of those men… The _nerve_ of some of those men… Them and their alcohol. It was such a difficult drug to swallow, and it left such a bitter taste all in his mouth.

He felt sickened. He knew some men saw him crying, and he felt heated as well. It was so hot all of a sudden.

He needed to know someone else was on the same page as him. Someone who’d agree with him. Who’d reaffirm his faith. Missy cared about the cause. Sometimes her ambition even exceeded his own! So where was she?

Why did he not tell her where he was going? Why didn’t he tell her? He’d run away without even telling her!

His hands clenched into fists. He didn’t have his piano rock with him! He needed it. He used it to make funny sounds and write little songs that would bring Arthur’s fairy tales to life!

It wasn’t with him! And neither was Arthur.

This was no fairy tale. Nor was this some perfect little coming-of-age story those adventure novels would always have.

His own ethics had been hit. The things he felt in meditation over the years… He felt like that all was crushed. It always felt so… so binary. There was this and there was that. The people liked this… and they hated that. But always, always… those feelings would match his own.

Well, now they didn’t. Those men’s words didn’t… and they were his own people!

He wiped his tears away furiously, but no matter how hard he tried, his eyes still felt so ridiculously blurry. He felt like he couldn’t see the truth anymore. Like he couldn’t see any clean-cut mold of reality.

Reality was… much more wild than he thought. It was a spiral of complexity, tangling him up in wires and making him unable to move.

He felt betrayed. Not only that, he felt like he was betraying everyone at home as well. He left them all without telling… He’d hidden his intent and he had been burned for it. All his efforts… All theirs too. All of their humanity, and their humility… He’d run away from it all.

He looked up from where he was, and he could see a group of his delegates had been arguing with each other. He knew what it was about. He saw the pointing. He knew they were screaming at whoever made him cry. He curled up and hugged himself. He felt like a little boy. A baby. Somebody who couldn’t defend himself. It embarrassed him too much.

Then suddenly the argument burst into flames. It became about rebellion, and about loyalties. About love for the English people, and about love for liberty and self-determination. What mattered more? Who mattered more?

Alfred watched them silently, frozen like a statue. It terrified him. If this was how his own delegates… his own congressmen would act with each other… then how would this sort of argument look out in the streets?

There was a fire he noticed in those men’s eyes. A fire Alfred did not like the sight of one bit.

 _Oh God_. It was enough to burn down a whole city.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoah, 1776 was jam-packed, wasn’t it? This chapter had 6 acts! 6! I wasn’t expecting it to be this long, but you know what? I like the way it turned out 😊
> 
> Oh, and yeah… Alfred deserves an award for being so flighty, doesn’t he? Gee Whizzz…
> 
> History notes:
> 
> [ Here’s an interesting timeline of events](https://www.loc.gov/collections/george-washington-papers/articles-and-essays/timeline/the-american-revolution/) that Alfred was talking about in the first act, leading up to the historical moments before this very chapter, and after it too.
> 
> May 10, 1776 was, on record, apparently a veeery hot day! I like to think Mr Adams would take note of that, given that as a Harvard-educated man, we was very passionate about the sciences. In fact, he helped found one of America’s top scientific societies, ‘the American Academy for Arts and Sciences’ which is still in use today as a scholarship forum.
> 
> “All sober inquirers after truth, ancient and modern, pagan and Christian, have declared that the happiness of man, as well as his dignity, consists in virtue. Confucius, Zoroaster, Socrates, Mahomet, not to mention authorities really sacred, have agreed in this.” Is an actual quote from Mr Adams in his text ‘Thoughts on Government’ written in 1776.
> 
> May 15 was the day Congress adopted Mr Adams ‘radical preamble’ to the Lee Resolution, calling for there to be an open debate on independence, and advising all oaths to the King to be thrown out the door. The same day, the Virginia Convention called for uniting the Colonies and declaring independence as well. Ooo, how fate lines itself up is spooky!
> 
> Did you know the Dutch Republic existed from 1581 to 1795? Yeah, and the congressmen brought it up in their debate! Whoopsies, though, they didn’t get to observe it for long! They also mentioned Ancient Rome, but in real life Mr Franklin found that comparison to be a bad omen, so he’s a bit ooc in here! But then, his goal in that debate was to convince Alfred, not himself... so maybe he would act like that.
> 
> The term ‘country’ that Mr Adams used to refer to Al can simply refer to any land, and is used to refer to a colony quite often in this time. The term ‘nation’ however, which Franklin used a couple of chapters ago, was an explicitly political move.
> 
> The man who Alfred thought was Jefferson, the things he said were inspired by this: “Believe me, dear Sir: there is not in the British empire a man who more cordially loves a union with Great Britain than I do. But, by the God that made me, I will cease to exist before I yield to a connection on such terms as the British Parliament propose; and in this, I think I speak the sentiments of America.”  
> Jefferson said it in 1775, I just didn’t want to identify him there because I don’t particularly like the man.
> 
> All the arguments the men made while debating independence were all real reasons why they held back in their vote. Most famously, Historian Garry Wills argued that Mr Dickinson was very frightened of this revolution ending up like the Jacobite cause [and a couple of other bad things too], and he chickened out and didn’t like the idea of independence because of that.
> 
> The order of each province being called out to vote is again, sourced from 1776 the musical. Haha, I’m a sucker for that musical! I don't know if that order is historical, BUT all politics I mentioned in this scene are real [at least I hope, based on my research].
> 
> Something sinister about the day Alfred missed: On July 3, Congress saw and made 86 edits to the US declaration, and cut its length by about a fourth. This included a verse condemning slavery, which might have made the 1800s a little smoother for the U.S. in real life, but who knows how history could have played out there.
> 
> On a happier note, though, on July 4th, the 29 year old Irishman John Dunlap printed perhaps [we don’t actually know how many] 200 broadsides of the U.S. Declaration, now known as the 'Dunlap broadsides', in the span of one night! Whaoo!! That’s pretty impressive. 
> 
> The Committee of Five were in charge of overseeing the printing, and John Adams later wrote about it, "We were all in haste." [ According to Ted Widmer, author of Ark of the Liberties: America and the World,](https://www.nytimes.com/2008/07/04/opinion/04widmer.html?_r=2&oref=slogin&oref=slogin) "there is evidence it was done quickly, and in excitement—watermarks are reversed, some copies look as if they were folded before the ink could dry and bits of punctuation move around from one copy to another."  
> It took two days for the Dunlap broadsides to be sent all across the newly declared U.S., and Washington received one and read it to his troops on July 9. Then, one copy was sent to England... Ruh roh (•⌓• ) !!!
> 
> Thank you for reading!! I hope this was interesting for you!
> 
> See you next chapter <3


	27. The year was 1776

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !! tw: instances of burning elements and graphic displays of injury !!
> 
> writing this chapter was a wild ride, i'll tell ya...  
> good luck

Alfred woke up gradually and groggily as his eyes slowly fluttered open. There was a voice; it sounded like it was coming from far away. It was rousing, energizing. Seeking attention. Someone else must be waking him up. Alfred felt the sheets crumple around him as he stretched over his bed, reaching out for the young man who he thought was calling for him, but then sat up quickly as he realised no one was there.

“Arthur?” He asked in a daze, only noticing the foggy haze around his eyes after wiping them and realizing it wouldn’t go away. A strange scent was dancing about the room, teasing his nostrils and forcing his lungs to tighten up. It wasn’t agonizing… but Alfred couldn’t help but shake a strange feeling of dread and loss…

Alfred slowly slid off the bed, looking around the room as he held his hands tight together. It was dark outside. The only thing that illuminated the place was a small set of very few candles, and a single lonely lantern. He picked the lantern up, slowly treading past the door as he peeked out, and looked down the hall. He could barely see anything; that very strange haze had blocked out most of the hallway’s candles’ hard work.

He tried to take in a deep breath, and his heartbeat hastened when he found that he couldn’t. There was a tickling buzz sensation around his neck, one he couldn’t shake no matter how he tried. It burned his throat badly, almost like he’d just consumed an overly strong alcoholic drink.

There was a sudden yip, and a laugh, and a few curse words down the hall. Multiple unknown voices cheered and jeered, and Alfred suddenly realized what was going on.

The haze… the thick scent. It was smoke. He couldn’t breathe nor see because of the smoke. The sounds around him were intense and crackling, and the laughter was crude and evil.

It was a simple answer. The very reason why he could barely even breathe.

There was a fire. There was a fire in the house.

_Oh… shit!_

Alfred immediately fled down the hall, the lantern banging against his arm as it swung back and forth. He turned the corner, expecting to see the stairs, but all he saw was a great glowing ball of yellow and orange thrash out and nearly strike him dead. He faltered, and fell back as he felt the heat rise and warm his skin.

The stairs were completely destroyed. Boards of wood snapped and crackled, bent and popped as fabrics came undone and the walls melted away. A side of the house had literally been ripped away by the flames, and Alfred’s eyes went wide as he caught sight of a few figures on horses – just barely from the late-night light – run off into the distance, whooping and hollering.

Strangers. Unidentifiable. Alfred shook in anger, and with great fear and deep sorrow. Those men… those… those arsonists! Arsonists had just attacked his home!

Alfred spun around, his dizzy head spinning the other way. He struggled to head back down the other way, down the hall again, desperate to find another way out.

He had to find Arthur. He had to find everyone. But where were they?

This September day had been on the back of Alfred’s mind for so long now. It was supposed to be a good day! He’d been waiting for it to come. He’d been praying for its arrival. And finally it was here, and it had started so well...

Arthur returned home to him around midday, only a few hours ago. After more than a year had passed with so little contact between them, they were finally together again, and Alfred was so ecstatic!

Although Arthur… he looked so exhausted, but he still hugged the life out of Alfred when he saw him. They chose to put their news to the side for a moment, and then they left the living room to rest together. They had fallen asleep in their bedroom almost instantly, Arthur so tired and Alfred so content wrapped up in his arms. They promised all talk to be left for when they woke up. Tonight. That was supposed to be right now! In their bedroom, where they were safe and comfortable, and maybe even with Matthew invited too. It was a promise!

But now that bedroom was full of smoke, and the house was burning.

Arthur was nowhere to be seen, and no matter how loud Alfred shouted, he couldn’t hear a single response from anyone. God forbid, where the hell were they?

“Arthur!” He screamed out yet again. It came out shrill, a panicked screech. His vocal cords were thwarted by the dense air. No doubt if he were human, he would have long since fallen to the floor, unconscious.

Faster than a rabbit, he ran up to the last door in the hallway, nearly breaking down as he opened the door and watched the smoke pour out. It was the study room. He’d always catch his brother using it, drawing or doing art or crafting something new.

“Matthew!” He cried. There were tears in his eyes, and he was coughing and heaving so heavily. He felt like he was going to die. “Are you in there? Anybody?”

He was desperate. He was alone, and it was unbearable. He couldn’t hear anybody, and his lantern did nothing to help light up his surroundings. Even though, he could still sense what was happening.

The bright, burning, buzzing fire of heat and death and destruction was taking over his house. He could see it; his loving home, swiftly being smothered and stripped down to bits, inch by inch, shredding his heart along the way with every new lick of flame.

It was awful, and it was damn near petrifying, but he had to keep moving. His body shifted as he made his way to the next flight of stairs, begging for it to be clear.

He felt weak as he caught sight of it, remaining fully intact and untainted. He could have collapse and praised God right then and there. Instead, however, he kept his pace. He flew down the staircase in what felt like an instant, and immediately noticed the density of the smoke decrease.

He continued to make his way through the lower floor, trying his best to ignore the roaring sound of the house falling apart, and the flames growing larger. His home was dying. It was about to perish. He could barely endure this suffering, and that horrifying crushing feeling that all was going to be lost.

The life of this house was so unbearably fragile. He never expected it to be so weak. It was… as fragile as a human. A human…

_Oh God, the humans!_

“Missy!” He rushed towards the door of her room, slamming it open and taking it off its hinges with a sudden bang. “David? C’mon! Where are you?”

He kicked at their bed, losing his patience. He was starting to feel too lightheaded. The smoke was finally getting to him. They had to be out already… they had to. If they were still in the house…

Oh God, they would be long gone.

“Damn it!” He knelt over as he began hacking and hurling, struggling to keep himself conscious. It was so hard to even breathe, every inhale felt like a different battle. His throat was too clogged, and his body felt so heavy. He let out a woeful whimper, a shallow and guttural tremor that rocked his very body. He had to get out. He had to find a way.

He started scrambling. He crawled out of the room like an animal, and he continued to stay low as he shifted and made his way across the floor, dragging his lantern along with him as he tried his best to catch his breath and stay as far away from the smoke as possible.

The sounds of the house burning down were overbearing now. Still, somehow, the loudest thing of all to him was still his hacking, coughing and crying as he inched closer and closer to the wall. He tried to reason with himself, but his mind was so hazy. He could follow his way out from here…

He stopped as his hand brushed the hallway wall. He had made it; he could follow the wall to the back door here. He could relax… He rolled over so his back was on the ground, and his head leaned against the wall. His eyes stayed glued to the crackling, melting ceiling. He’d made it this far; he could close his eyes just for a few seconds…

Was it God who had betrayed him? For this wasn’t how tonight was supposed to play out. It was supposed to be happy! It was supposed to be everything he wanted! They were supposed to wake up around now, and spend the whole night talking. They were going to catch up. They were going to laugh. He was going to convince Arthur about everything…

“Arthur,” he whispered as he opened his eyes, wishing to see him this time instead of any smoke.

But then Alfred froze, and his jaw went slack.

There it was, hung up on the wall. Right before him.

Missy’s lovely frame. Arthur’s writing, and his kind and hopeful words. A memento from some of Alfred’s greatest memories. A symbol of his longing for liberty. His muse.

It was the Magna Arthur.

He remained still, in a dumb and cool silence for what felt like an eternity before the heat rose again and he was brought back to reality. Brought back to the crashing symphony of sounds; the cracking and clattering of a collapsing building falling in on itself, and the angry crackling sounds of the boldly lit fire that slowly made its way towards him, and threatened him with doom. The heat was throbbing. Alfred felt like he was melting. His breath staggered.

He needed to get it out of the building.

His hands shook violently as he put one limb out before of the other, and he lifted himself up. He couldn’t breathe properly. Things were so dizzy, and his neck was burning. He’d lost wherever Arthur was, but he wasn’t going to lose this.

He leaned against the wall as he rose upwards slowly, leaving his lantern on the ground as he reached for the charter and lifted it off its hinges. He was weak, but he had supernatural strength. He could hold it. He could carry it. That was the sacred hymn he repeated to himself.

That was, until, a couple of hands grabbed at his shoulders, shocking him enough to drop it, and he was met face-to-face with a very livid and wild-eyed Matthew.

“Alfred!” He screeched, his voice frantic, broken and high-pitched. “Alfred, we have to go! Now!” He shoved at Alfred’s shoulders violently, his violet eyes piercing straight into his soul. “I’ve already taken Missy out; she’s waiting for us outside! C’mon...”

“Wait!” Alfred cried as he tried to fall out from Matthew’s frightening gaze. He reached out for the Magna Arthur. “We can’t just leave it!”

He felt Matthew grab at him again, forcing him to look at him. “We don’t have time for that! You matter more, we have to leave!”

Suddenly there was a massive _crack_ , and a few wooden boards fell down from the roof and crashed down onto the floor behind them. Matthew yelped, and all of a sudden an intense feeling overcame Alfred. He felt like it was nearly certain he was going to die.

“Alfred!” Matthew was tugging at him more helplessly, begging this time. “We have to go, please! The whole building’s gonna crash down!” He started to pull at Alfred, and their superstrength was matched in prowess. He was dragging Alfred out of there.

“But it’ll burn!” Alfred sobbed into his shoulder as his nails dug into his skin. “I can’t do this…” He pushed back, making a decision and sticking to his resolve. He was going to save it. “You go on without me!”

“No!” He had never heard Matthew scream so loud. “I swear to God I will _donk_ you on the head!” His voice crackled as he started throwing slaps at Alfred. “I care if _you_ burn. I care if _you_ die. I didn’t come back in here just to go out without you!”

Matthew’s grip grew tighter, and his stare grew more intense. The house was rattling. The fire was fast approaching. The back door was right there. Matthew used all his strength to pry Alfred from the ground and from his anchoring grasp of the Magna Arthur, and he dragged him through the door and right out of there.

Alfred kicked. Alfred screamed. He shouted and he sobbed as he failed miserably, reaching out for his charter as it waited on the ground for him, slowly curling and burning up into ash and dust as it cried out to him for help. He watched as the flames consumed it, and he grew limp in Matthew’s embrace as he was dragged over the grass and out to a safer place, now distant from his New England home.

“No…” He whispered softly as a strange sense of numbness overcame him, and the last of his tears made their way down his cheeks.

Matthew remained silent beside him, but his silence was louder than his screams as he took Alfred’s hand and guided him up the hill. The same hill where Deborah was buried.

Missy was waiting there, sitting next to her daughter’s grave all silent and stunned as she rocked back and forth, her arms wrapped around her shins. There was a lantern next to her, and only then did Alfred realize that he had left his own one in the house. Alongside his charter.

He silently sat himself down beside her.

Matthew tried speaking to her, but she didn’t respond. Instead, she whispered something under her breath, her eyes glassy, wide and unblinking. She could not break eye contact with the burning house before them, but Matthew refused to even look at it.

He sat down next to Alfred, and tried taking his hand again, albeit this time much more gentle. Alfred took it, and he squeezed it, now watching his house burn down from a different perspective. The sheer catastrophic scale of the death and destruction his home was facing was fully observable from a distance. He could understand why Matthew had to get him out of there.

“I’m sorry,” his brother whispered tenderly, and Alfred turned to face him. The boy’s face was barely illuminated in the night, and the lighting from the fire would come and go. He looked like a ghost. One so occupied with grief and regret and an awful lack of sleep.

Alfred didn’t respond. He couldn’t. He simply leaned into Matthew’s shoulder as he watched his whole house be consumed by the flames.

The entire thing was set alight by evil bright reds and oranges. The porch, the flowers, the pillars, the roof, the walls; every room was engulfed and being devoured by those blazing brutal colours. A hellfire of heated light, lusting after more and more to destroy. Most of the building had already collapsed, and above it all was an unwelcome trail of dark and disgusting smoke that covered up the stars.

He forced himself to stop looking. It was too much. He had grown used to feeling physical pains from time to time, living with a war looming over his back. But that sight… No, it was too painful.

He looked down, and noticed his bare feet coated in layers and layers of black and grey ash. So were his arms when he held them out before his eyes. _God_. He clenched his fists. When the hell did that happen?

He wiped his hands on his undergarments, the only things he had on him now. The cloth once clean and pristine from when the night had begun, it now felt grotty and grimy against his fingers. He’d been made completely and utterly filthy from the falling of his house. It must’ve been an awful sight.

He began coughing again, shocked and shaking and dumbfounded. That wasn’t… That wasn’t for this house. There was something else going on, he felt it in his heart. He felt sick. It was something to do with his people, something else was going on.

He rubbed at his neck, an instinctual reaction, before shooting his hand back down and shaking for another reason. There was too much trauma in that grasp. He hugged himself tightly as he tried to stop the feeling. He wondered what Arthur would say to make him feel better.

_Arthur!_

Alfred suddenly stood up, his ears ringing and his chest burning.

Where on Earth was Arthur? Or David? Where were they? Alfred had no idea where they were. Were they safe? Were they alright? He looked straight into the face of the fire. It remained steadfast in its destructive ways. He begged to God that they were not in there.

He spun around on his heels as he turned to face Matthew and Missy.

“Have you seen Arthur at all?” He asked, feeling his heart race in his chest. His shaking legs were so close to buckling under the pressure. “Do you know where David is?”

Matthew flinched abruptly as Missy cowered, and Alfred felt harsh spikes stab at his spine.

“My husband?” She spoke in a dissociated state, glaring at him. “I don’t know where he is. I woke up to see Matthew beside my bed, telling me we have to go all of a sudden. He wasn’t there with us at the...” She paused to cough heartily, and it sounded so guttural and clunky. Alfred lowered his gaze. “At the time.”

Alfred didn’t know what to say. Matthew tried to comfort her, but then she shook her head. Her hands dug into the dark and dimly lit patches of grass below her.

She pointed angrily, and so hopelessly, at the pile of dirt beside her. Horror and heartbreak, she became their embodiment. “I know where my baby is, though…”

Alfred couldn’t do it. He wasn’t strong enough. He turned away as she burst into tears, and Matthew hid his face behind his hands as he reached out for her. Alfred tried to think of something else.

They hadn’t seen him. They hadn’t seen _either of_ _them_. That was… Was that a good sign? It had to be! It… He shook his head, trying to reset his brain, squeezing his hands together so tight in anticipation. They had to be somewhere else instead. It was the only way. Somewhere out of the house.

“Arthur wasn’t in our bedroom when I woke up…” He crossed his arms with a frown and spoke up so they could hear him even though his back was to them. “Maybe they…” He shook his head again, and tried to clear his clogged throat. His neck was still tingling, and Alfred dreaded the meaning behind it… “Maybe they went out.”

After a moment of silence, Matthew was the first one to speak up. “In the middle of the night?”

Alfred bit his lip, and his crossed arms constricted tightly over his chest. “Oh, I don’t know,” he winced at Matthew with a look so filled with worry. “Arthur does some strange things sometimes.”

Matthew watched him for a moment, staring with eyes unblinking before he looked out to the fire then back at Alfred. His eyes were half lidded. He was tired, and when he spoke it was matter of fact. “The fire’s not spreading. It’s just the house that will go.”

Alfred exhaled sharply. “ _Just_ my house, huh, Mattie?” His voice cracked. After losing everything in there… What a way to put it. “My God, Matthew.”

“I mean the ground around it isn’t the type to burn!” He corrected hastily, standing up and reaching out for him. He tried his best to sound more soothing. “I don’t think anything else will be harmed.”

Missy wiped at her eyes and coughed croakily. She was still seated on the ground still, right next to her daughter’s resting place. “You saying that… if they’re not in there, they could be safe? Somewhere else?”

“The barn,” Matthew whispered suddenly. And then the light in his violet eyes could rival the fight of the flames. “They could be in the barn!”

“The barn?” Alfred questioned. He narrowed his eyes. The shed, that stable. That barn-hybrid place they’d renovated once or twice over the years. The place where Peggy lived. Those beautiful little chickens too...

“No,” he stood back. No way. He couldn’t believe it. “There’s no way they would have left it alo –”

Missy was on her legs already, sprinting down the hill. “It might still be intact, then!” She shouted out over he shoulder, gesturing for them to follow her. That broad smile shone, so wide and so full of hope.

Alfred couldn’t help but feel that hope as well.

He raced to catch up with her as Matthew swooped down to grab the lantern, chasing them from not too far behind.

His breathing became erratic. He didn’t know what to expect. Each step sent sparks flying, a firework of cheer, but also a scalding burn of doubt. All he could do was pray as he ran, until he could finally see past the house and out into the distance.

And there it was, in his line of sight. Their barn, once a stable, once a shed. All of it intact. It had been left untouched. A soft beam of light was fluctuating softly from inside. That was a good sign. They must be in there. Alfred didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He started coughing again, instead.

Missy was already pushing the doors further open by the time he made it there. He followed her inside, stopping short and breathless as they came into view.

There was barely any light save for a few lit lanterns, and the chickens were sneezing and wheezing as they sprinted around frantically. David was heaving heavily, cowering on his knees as one hand gripping tightly over the other. Arthur was lying down on the ground behind him, as still as a dead man. Alfred’s heart stopped.

“Davie!” Missy cried out with a wealth of emotions, and she fell down before him. “Are you all –” she pulled at his hand, and he moved it unwittingly, revealing empty gashes of gore and flesh. A few of the fingers on his right hand had been ripped off through brutal force.

Alfred heard a scream from behind him, and he turned to watch Matthew drop his lantern in absolute shock, crumbling the candle inside into bits and scattering shards of glass everywhere. A ferocious instinct struck him, and he leaped out to protect Arthur, kicking away whatever debris he could. A few pieces dug into him, and it took him a few seconds to realize those whines were not his own, but in fact a horse’s, somewhere out in the distance. The sounds had frightened Peggy.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Matthew cried as he helped Missy stand up and move David away, closer to another lantern. They began uttering silent things to each other, inspecting his wounds with great sorrow until Matthew left to help ease Peggy’s worries, and Alfred was left all alone to stand in his own surprise.

He spun around, coming face to face with Arthur’s ghostly body. He paid his bleeding legs no heed as he grabbed another lantern, praying to God that his other Magna Arthur was still breathing. He couldn’t lose this one too.

When he kneeled in front of him, he nearly fainted at the horrors that he saw. The lantern did its duty too well, it shone and showed fresh blood, crackled skin, charred black and melting pink. Alfred crumpled to the side, vomiting into the hay that lay in piles to the side of him. This was too much. Arthur’s right arm was too far ruined. He was so hurt. It was all too much.

“Don’t worry yourself so much.” It was a sudden yet soft murmur that sounded from his lips, and Alfred jolted before moving and propping himself upwards again. He leaned over Arthur, watching him intensely, desperately. Green eyes, weak yet alive, stared straight back at him. Arthur was awake! Oh, praise the Lord! And he was speaking… Alfred nearly sobbed as he cradled the face of who felt like his other half gently into his hands.

“Don’t worry… about me.” Arthur repeated, sounding so faint and so soft. He brushed his free hand down Alfred’s cheek. He was slowly closing his eyes. “It will mend in my sleep…”

“Sleep?” Alfred cried. What kind of sleep? Did he mean… “Arthur!”

“There is nothing you can do for me right now.” Arthur spoke with unprecedented rigor, determined to keep his eyes open. As if he couldn’t die until he told Alfred his following commands. “Listen to me. Please. Focus on David instead.”

“But you –”

“He is human, Alfred.” Arthur remained steadfast. It was almost like Alfred’s unexpected presence had given him sudden inner strength. He turned his head away, looking over Alfred’s shoulders as he struggled to watch Missy assess David’s condition. “How bad is the bleeding, over there?”

“Bad, but not awful.” Missy responded quickly. “It looks like the heat resealed a lot of the wounds.”

“Do you have anything you could utilize as a makeshift tourniquet? It would be best to have one on your wrist, Williams.”

“I have nothing useful on me.” David shook his head, sounding so pained. He couldn’t help himself.

So Matthew returned, and he scurried around, struggling to keep the frightened chickens from the glass while also searching for any sort of cloth he could use.

Missy was motionless, her eyes glancing from side to side as she was lost deep in her own thoughts. Then she suddenly reached up for the scarf working as a headband for her hair. Without a word, she untied it, and wrapped it around his wrist tightly. She smiled at him softly. A resolute smile, as if she were saying the words ‘we will survive this’ out loud again and again and again, until everyone else in the room believed it. Until she herself believed it too.

Then she put her hands on her hips and finally said what Alfred had been thinking the whole time. “Where were you?” She asked, almost angry at her husband. “How did this happen?”

“We were in the kitchen together,” Arthur explained. “He was helping me. We were cooking a rabbit I hunted at dusk.”

Cooking a rabbit… At dusk. It sounded like something stupid that English nation would do. Alfred ran his hand through Arthur’s hair. He knew Arthur adored it, being cared for in that way. He hoped it was relaxing him, somehow. God only knew how much pain he was in. “You left our bed,” he whispered into his ear, a conversation kept between the two of them, and Arthur nodded.

“I could no longer find sleep as something I desired. My mind was far too focused on…” He couldn’t finish his sentence. Something was stopping him. An intruding thought, a worry, a promise to someone else, maybe. Alfred didn’t know. But the way Arthur’s eyes glazed over as he stopped talking, _that_ scared him, he certainly knew.

“I… I noticed the fire first.” David began to speak as he pushed down onto on his wounds. “It came over the kitchen quickly. We made our way out of the room. However, a wooden pillar fell down before us, and dust made its way into Arthur’s eyes. He couldn’t see. So I reached out my arm.” He hissed out in pain as he applied more pressure. “I held onto his shoulder, attempting to guide him out of the building. But then another structure fell. It was on fire. It hit my hand, and the force was so strong it took my fingers. It scraped against Arthur’s arm as well.”

Alfred’s head snapped back to the sight of Arthur’s injured arm. That sounded… horrific. Then it suddenly hit him. “Arthur. You need medical attention.”

“Not now, Alfred,” he rebuked him sharply. “Besides, David will only need it if he is feeling faint of heart.” His eyes were still searching over something else. It was clear he was still in the middle of thinking. Until he spoke suddenly.

“You will have to make your way to Canada’s house. The both of you, Matthew. Alfred. You have to stay away until this conflict passes.”

Wait? What? Matthew’s house? NO! No, oh nonono. There was no way Alfred was splitting up with Arthur now! He’d only just got him back!

“I understand if you wish to part ways.” Arthur continued to speak on as if what he had just said was _nothing_. “We are not human. We are a dangerous bunch. I am so sorry it had to come to this for me to finally tell you that.”

David’s response was swift, although it was clear he was still in shock. It seemed like his eyes could barely focus on anything. “We know you are not human.” He made a strange sound. It could have been a stunted laughing. “We’ve known for a very long time…” He sent Missy a strange look. As if they were communicating something they had already discussed before. Like they were prepared for some disaster one day.

“We are willing to go.” She uttered softly, and Alfred realized. They had made their own decisions long ago. “We will be taking the boys with us.”

But Alfred refused. He leaned down, right over Arthur. He could smell the blood, but he couldn’t let go of him. He could feel his weak breath against his skin. He knew the nation was so close to dying. Alfred couldn’t take it. They were together forever. They were supposed to be together forever! It was Arthur’s promise… He couldn’t die on him now. But sure as hell, he couldn’t force Alfred to just leave him either!

“We will have to leave her, you know…” Missy was in tears, but Alfred could barely pay any attention. He was too focused on helping Arthur with his arm. “I don’t know if I have the strength for that.”

Alfred didn’t know any medical training. He knew nothing. He couldn’t help at all. Arthur needed somebody else. David too, he needed bandages too! But Alfred didn’t… he didn’t… They needed a healer! A physician! Somebody trained with this stuff…

“I know we will have to leave her. But we must,” David responded. His voice sounded like it was under water, far from Alfred, yet everywhere. He was very _very_ pained. “We’re not safe here anymore. We must migrate, in search for someplace else.”

Was that a sigh? Did David just sigh? Alfred couldn’t tell. He was too panicked. He couldn’t hear properly. But he did know… that David was so, so exhausted.

Alfred’s house was supposed to be his safe home. Now it was destroyed by incognito arsons who had come out of nowhere. And they had destroyed his home, Alfred’s home, David’s home, everyone’s _home_ … in one of the most violent ways possible. It broke Alfred’s heart. It made him angry, it made him livid. It made him weep. He was left enraged. So frustrated. It consumed him. He couldn’t move on.

“I suppose…” Missy said, sounding optimistic. She turned to Matthew. “Knowing you for so long, my dear, it is about time I meet your people.” She hugged his shoulder and reached out for David too, protecting what was left of her broken-hearted family.

Matthew nodded, smiling sadly in her embrace. He was blushing. Sad yet happy, and sorry that he was happy. “It will be nice to meditate again. I’ve missed it.”

Alfred shook his head. He refused to give up. He couldn’t stand it. “I am not leaving you,” he hissed into Arthur’s ear. Decisively. They needed to move faster. “And we are getting you medical aid, as well.”

Arthur’s blinking and breathing have both already slowed down. It made Alfred panic, and that made Arthur upset. He opened his mouth, ready to respond before David broke down. He was sobbing so loud. The dread filled Alfred’s heart. Why wasn’t anyone moving faster?

“We will sort this out later,” Arthur whispered before turning his head and speaking out much louder. “Williams, are you feeling light-hearted?”

“No. No, I am in pain, but not faint of heart.” But then he looked up to see his wife, and his tears shone bright in the lanterns’ candlelight. “But how… how am I supposed to feed you with this?” He whispered, gesturing to his broken hand. “God’s gift to me was laced within the talent of these hands… And now… How? How may I find work with them, now that mankind has stripped me of their gift…”

Alfred stared blankly, realizing gradually. David was a laborer… He was a laborer, and he just lost his greatest asset to his trade. He closed his eyes. This was all so unfair.

“You can still teach, Davie.” He heard Matthew say. His dear sweet brother. Always searching for some comfort. “You could teach me. I could become your apprentice!”

“I will have to find new work too. Maybe I’ll be a maid, or a cook, or a cleaner…” Missy’s laugh was dry. “There ain’t many options for me, either be that or be a seamstress. Now, it don’t pay much, but with all our combined efforts… Davie, we’ll be all right.”

“But Missy…” Alfred shook his head. “You’re not a maid!” Her entire life. Her passions, her work. Her career. Had it all really been burned down in an instant?

Alfred felt hollow. It was too unfair. She had to give up the very thing she was so scared of losing. The job she once had, where Alfred had slowly replaced her work with that of a Frenchman… Oh God. Suddenly he felt like such shit.

He felt so ashamed as he watched her, but she smiled, and she simply – yet tearfully – reassured him that she would be fine. She moved on to speak to David, who was now chuckling quietly, but Alfred couldn’t watch. He couldn’t move on from any of it.

He looked back to Arthur, his head spinning from going back and forth again and again. Arthur was so sickly and pale and for a still, unmoving moment Alfred worried that he was already gone.

But Arthur’s dirtied hand clung to his arm so tight. “Alfred. You need to find something to clean his wounds.”

Alfred’s eyes quickly scanned the room, barely lit by the few remaining candles in glass lanterns. For once Alfred regretted his refusal to use oil lamps – they were so much brighter, but Alfred couldn’t stand hurting a whale.

“So… like a bucket of water, or –”

“No. No, we need something else.”

“We need a physician!” Matthew cried, as if only realizing now. Damn, they were all so slow today. Maybe it was the shock that did it. Or the smoke. Jesus, the smoke was starting to make its way into the barn as well. Alfred shook his head to loosen off the new wave of panic.

“And your wounds, how are they?” He leaped onboard the new conversation like a wild stowaway. At least Arthur couldn’t deny his own care anymore; Alfred had said it to the crowd. “Can we fix your arm faster?”

Matthew narrowed his eyes, confused before he made his way over to Arthur. The second he saw Arthur’s arm on the other side, he shoved Alfred over and screamed at him. “Why the hell didn’t you shout out something earlier?”

Alfred was stunned. “I…”

“This is… Oh my… Arthur, are you dying?”

In seconds, everyone had crowded him, voicing their concerns. Arthur glared at Alfred the entire time, unimpressed. Eventually, thank God, he gave in. He sighed. He mentioned a name, stating he’d become well acquainted with him over time. He lived somewhere in town, a place name that the others recognized, somehow.

“I cannot move so… tell him to come here. He owes me a few favors, so that will not be too much of a hassle… And tell him I am no ordinary captain either, thank you very much. I have worked as the personal advisor for many admirals and vices in the past and I shall be respected as such,” he said with a click of the tongue.

Alfred could have laughed in a different time, or a different world. He kicked at the loose hay on the ground, trying to control his tears. He’d missed Arthur so much.

Another sigh. “He will come acquainted with men in uniform, however. Ignore those little friends of his for me, please. They are rather… agitated by recent events.”

Alfred’s mood dropped once again. Men in uniform? He intended to bring redcoats here? Alfred’s frown was grave, yet he kept his mouth shut. Arthur needed help first and foremost.

“Williams, are you willing to go so you may receive the proper medical care you need? And Matthew, you seem to be the most physically available. May I ask for you to be his convincer?”

They both agreed, and within a buzz, a blur, an instant, Alfred was stilled as he watched them prepare, mount Peggy and ride straight to town. Alfred was left with Missy, and with holding Arthur’s hand so tight.

Eventually Missy grew restless, however. “I am going to visit my daughter again,” she whispered before passing through the door, taking a light with her.

So Alfred and Arthur were alone. Alfred was still sitting up beside him, doing everything he could with the hay and his clothes to make Arthur comfortable, and cushion him here and there.

While he worked, he’d sneak glances at Arthur, who was slowly growing more and more amused. How absurd. Alfred stopped what he was doing to ask him.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” His voice crackled, and the breathless tone in his voice blew him away. He hoped Arthur couldn’t see his blush in the candlelight.

“Are you happy now? I am getting help.” There was a twinkle in his eye, and he smiled with the pride of a lion.

“Yes,” Alfred snapped back, fiddling with some of the hay in his hands. “That should have been non-negotiable, though. I don’t know why you fought it… You got me in trouble with Matthew.” He was trying to sound stern, but he had a strange inkling feeling that he sounded more pouty and grumpy rather than anything else.

“Well. I am not dead yet, so I nave no reason to believe these burns are so terrible.”

Alfred scoffed. Hadn’t he looked at himself? Could he even see himself? Alfred felt so angry as he snapped, “have you gone blind too?” He cringed as even those words came out with a whine.

Arthur sighed. “No. I was in the house –” Alfred flinched at its mention. He wondered with a great sense of dread if Arthur knew the entire thing was gone – “but the dust has cleared up now. I am fine. And I cannot see why I deserve any special treatment when I am a nation and I can heal from it soon. I refuse to take any treatment from a human who may take my spot with something far more serious in the meantime.”

Alfred looked away, watching as the chickens slowly approached them, finally gaining enough courage to return to the base of the barn. He couldn’t understand Arthur. He was hurt, and he needed attention. But he’d toss it all away for something hypothetical.

“How are you feeling?” Alfred asked softly, finally. Genuinely curious as he squeezed Arthur’s hand tighter within his own.

“At first there was no pain at all, but now I must admit it is agonizing… It hurts less than resurrection, I suppose.”

Alfred listened to his words attentively. He smiled weakly, knowing it was Arthur’s way of saying thank you for caring. “Is there anything more I can do for you?” He whispered tenderly.

“Oh, yes,” Arthur said, loud and snappy. “Of course. Keep those blasted chickens away from me!”

Ah, so it seemed the curious chickens had found an interest in Arthur’s arm. Alfred pushed them away before they had the urge to peck it, wondering how the hell they were raised to be so fearless in the first place.

Arthur laughed loudly, even though his body was in the worst of pain and slightest of strength. It made Alfred’s heart flurry with fondness. “Oh! Please, begone foul beasts! I am not your food!”

Alfred smiled weakly as he made an effort to push away each chicken while also caring not to hurt her. Arthur would give a command for which one was too close, and Alfred would get her to scoot first. It became a little game, as stupid as it sounded. But it was marvelous stress relief, and fun, and distracting. And both young men were laughing so hard in the end they managed to shoo them all off for good.

Alfred struggled to catch his breath as he gazed into Arthur’s eyes. Oh, he had missed him so much.

“I think I am beginning to heal now,” Arthur grinned brightly at him. And it was true, Arthur was starting to look far more lively. Being a nation was so strange sometimes. “It looks like I will not be ‘sleeping’ after all. I suppose it is a _shame_ –”

“Shame?” Alfred was gobsmacked.

“Or I suppose that is _good_. I suppose, I suppose! You did not let me reach the climax of my joke!” Arthur whacked him a couple of times. “It would be rather awkward for a physician to arrive before a man long since dead on arrival.”

Alfred scrunched his face up. “That wasn’t funny.” He said sternly, yet he still smiled as he stroked Arthur’s hair again.

“Oh, I know.” Arthur chuckled. “It would be an affront to the poor man’s heart if I came alive yet again with him in the room. Has anybody thought of his rights?”

Alfred was laughing at first, but then he looked down at the ground sadly. Rights… Their charter… It was ruined. He bit his lip.

“See, this is why they are called the ‘rights of man’, Alfred, because Mary Magdalene was not afforded such a comfort when Jesus left his tomb! We should add that to our charter, we should! Add that ‘no human should ever have to witness such a thing as…’” Arthur’s words slowly died out as he grew more concerned. Alfred had become far too spaced out.

“Alfred?” He paused before tugging at his sleeve. “Alf, Are you alright?”

“The Magna Arthur’s gone.” He finally whispered after a pregnant pause, scratching his neck. It was still stinging. “I lost it in the fire.”

Arthur’s expression twisted from concern straight to terror.

“How… how bad is it?”

Alfred looked away.

“Alfred, is the whole house gone?”

He didn’t respond. He couldn’t. He tried, but his throat felt clogged again. He was coughing again. The itching had returned. He tried his best to soothe it but then he… collapsed. His head fell down as he sobbed onto Arthur’s stomach, and the glimpses that he caught past his tears revealed that Arthur looked just as hurt as Alfred felt.

It felt like everything was lost, and it hit him all again in a sudden fiery blow. All distractions were lost. He was reminded of his reality. Of what would greet him if he stepped outside. It was all too much, all too sudden, and he couldn’t move on.

He dug his fingers into his pocket, fiddling for his comfort rock. But he couldn’t feel it in there. “Damn!” He cried out, looking up at Arthur to share his sorrow. “My piano rock… It’s gone.”

Arthur stared at him for a moment, and then something profound struck him. Something substantial, something sad. “The purple cloth I owned. The one Bess gave me. I used it as a scarf… That should be gone as well.”

That only made Alfred’s crying worse. He wept for England. He wept for Canada. The Williams, his home, his animals and himself. His coughing grew even worse. He knew it was not from the smoke. Everything outside was falling apart on him.

He needed to know the thing he’d been putting off for so long. What was going on with his people?

He leaned back, until he was lying next to Arthur, who was asking him so many questions about what he was doing, why he was doing that, and should he go through with it. But he’d made his mind up. He knew whatever was waiting for him in meditation, it would hurt. But he needed to know. He needed to know for his people.

So he closed his eyes, holding Arthur’s hand so tightly along the way and ignoring his anxious protests. When he opened them again, he was standing in the city. The burning in his neck increased tenfold, and the smoke was bleeding everywhere.

Alfred could have laughed from the shock. So here it was. Tiny little New York City. A battleground between Patriots and Royalists – that was what they were called, right? This tiny small business city, built on a tiny little island with a lovely little harbor. Taken over by invasion only a few days before.

He fell to his knees. There was infighting. Yelling. Shouting. Scrambling. Businesses were on fire. Houses were on fire. Who knew how many, maybe five hundred or so… It was a wild night. Alfred could only praise God that he felt no fatalities… for now.

There were voices inside his head. Everyone was blaming each other. Nobody could sort out who started it. He felt his eyes sting as he screamed into his hands and shook his head wildly. He wanted to wake up! He wanted to get out… He needed help!

Arthur shook his shoulders, and he sat up awake with a start. He rubbed at his eyes, which still stung no matter what else he tried. Arthur was watching him with remorse and anticipation.

“There’s a fire in the city as well.” Alfred explained to him almost numbly as he looked around the barren barn house. He couldn’t make any sense of it. “Who would spark something like that?” He shook his head again. His head spun. “Who would spark it _here,_ too? Who were those arsons? Why were we attacked? Why…”

He couldn’t understand any of it! He needed to scream. It was all so sudden… The rug had been pulled out from under him. The ship he was on board had been hit by ghastly canons. He knew war was always around the corner… But now that his own house was gone… It all felt so different. Far too _close_. Alfred wished he could run away from it all.

“It was most likely those rebellious ruffians.” Arthur said, sounding both disgusted and sorry for him. “Those blasted men who call themselves ‘Patriots’ so passionately.” He rolled his eyes, and Alfred felt his heart tear in half. “Oh, as if they even know how to define such a word...”

“You think they did it?” Alfred fell a sudden sense of defensiveness. “How do you know it wasn’t those soldiers who came in and set everything on fire?”

“Well,” Arthur was almost derisive in his tone. “It certainly was in no way _my_ men who have just attacked this household.”

“So you’re saying they’re mine?” Alfred narrowed his eyes, affronted.

“Oh God no, they are not yours! They are neither of ours. They’re traitors against the Empire, Alfred.”

“How do you know they are traitors?” Alfred’s breath hitched. He didn’t want to know… “Arthur,” he said somberly. No… _No_ _no no_ … “Did those men have anything to do with you?”

Alfred didn’t want to think… The timing all matched up. He had no idea what Arthur was doing all this time… But no! Alfred couldn’t take that…

“Arthur.” His voice was broken. “ _Tell me now._ ” His commanding, when upset, had always sounded so much more like begging. “Were they here to attack you?”

Arthur didn’t respond. He simply lied there… silent.

“Arthur!”

“I don’t know!” He shouted back finally, and Alfred felt some part of himself relax. But the rest of him was so angry. “I do not know, alright? I have no idea if they were here for me or not, but they _might_ have been.” Arthur blinked a few times. His eyes were glassy. It was obvious what he was trying to hold back. His expression was one of demanding resolution. “That is why you must go to Canada. You must live in Matthew’s house for now. You must stay out of this until I have managed the conflict, you understand? Then you may finally return –”

“No…”

“home and we may rebuild. I promise you, I will help you rebuild –”

“No… no no!”

“Because I know how painful –”

“No! Arthur!” Alfred slammed his fists onto the ground. “I’m not going to Canada! I’m not going with him! You can’t make me!”

Arthur sighed. “Alfred… we have no choice.”

“No,” Alfred shook his head, and his tone was tinged with sobbing yet again. He was such a mess. It was all such a big mess. “I’m not leaving you…” His voice broke down into a desolate whisper. “I can’t leave you. I only just got you back…”

Arthur’s next words shattered his last hopes. “I am not staying here either, Alfred. I have to return to my own house as well. I have been ordered to. More than likely the second my arm has healed, they will be sending me off.”

Alfred’s whole body shook. He must have misheard that. “You…”

“I held them off for as long as I could, I promise you that.”

“But you’re going back.”

A silent moment of regret. “Yes, I am, Alfred.”

“Why the…” There was a sudden, strange stirring in his gut. Was it rage? Betrayal? Confusion and heartbreak too? Alfred couldn’t name it, but he could certainly feel it. Memories long buried threatened to come up from the grave. “Why the fuck would you be doing that for?” After _everything._ Everything they’ve been through…

“Do you have any idea how long I have spent away from my people? From _my_ land, Alfred? It is draining me!” Arthur snapped, and Alfred’s anger only intensified. “I have been an awful guardian for my people this past decade. I have not seen my island in almost eleven years! _Eleven years_ , Alfred, and that is supposed to be my duty, my _purpose_ as a personification! It is the very reason why I exist! The reason I am living!”

Alfred could have screamed. “A guardian? That’s your purpose? Well then how about my purpose? How about my reason? Who am I, Arthur? _Who am I!_ Am I just some toy to you? Oh, you can play with me for a few years then toss me off to the side while you deal with all your big nation stuff? How am I supposed to live with that? How can you expect me to sit back while you do everything for me? I want to represent the desires of my own people!”

“Alfred Jones!”

“No! Fuck you, Kirkland! Drop dead!” He stood up, towering over his empire nation. Humiliating. “I want to be a guardian for _my people_ as well…” Oh shit, he better not be crying again. He looked away, begging the world around him that Arthur couldn’t see from the ground. This had to be serious. He had to pull himself together. “That’s why I… I want to be _independent_ , England. I want to be my own nation.”

The only way to describe Arthur was that he looked horrified. “No. No!” But the only way to describe his voice… was that it was one of great demand, and absolute authority. “You have translated the thought of some abusive men within the system to mean the whole thing is corrupt. That is… that is silly nonsense. It is an insolent rhetoric that holds no grounding –”

“Oh, that is rich coming from the very nation who has always told me that ideals and virtues and goals to aspire to and strive for are all…” Alfred shook his head and spun his hands around, trying to regain his voice. “The things that really counted in the end!” He screamed out in frustration. He was crying again.

“Yes, but with me, there is reason attached to those ideas, Alfred. Do you not see? You have faults in your behavior, all because you are too young to –”

“Faults? You wanna talk about faults? It’s your fault I’m like this, you know! You, with all your stupid stories of liberty and freedom and adventure. I’m this way because I look up to you! I’ve always admired you! You were my crutch! My muse! Everything that I’ve ever believed, my entire fucking life, ever since you’ve sailed into it, you’ve been the one to teach me –”

“Stop… Stop! You have barely even considered reality! You have barely even glanced at the people! You have been cooped up here far too long. How long ago was your last proper conversation with a human? Most people, their only wish is to work, then come home to their families! That is all they care for! They do not wish for war! They do not wish to be pulled into a useless mess of bloodshed and political turmoil. Think of _them_ for once, Alfred! Think of _their_ rights!”

“I am thinking of their rights! I’m thinking of the Magna Carta! And the Magna Arthur, which is now gone, but I still remember the words as clear as day! Don’t you see? We both agree! You’re right! The people _do_ deserve rights! We deserve rights too, and they deserve to be protected! You don’t deserve to be ordered around, or told where you must go! And I don’t deserve to be told how I should be governed by a foreign power!”

“Alfred!”

“My people want a voice, Arthur! I want to represent them! As _their_ guardian angel, right? That is why… that is the very reason why I went to all those cabinet meetings in Pennsylvania! That’s why I’ve been seeing the Second Continental Congress. You must have heard of them, right? Well, I’ve met them! I first saw them when you sent me there! And I like it there! And they like me there! Y’know, John Adams really liked my ideas!” He leaned over, sitting back down on the ground so he could be closer to Arthur. “I… I think this might work!”

Arthur was frozen. He was shocked, stunned, his pupils dilated. He seemed completely speechless for a second until… “You… You. I – I thought you were…”

Alfred wanted to soothe him, yet all he could do was continue on with his rambling. “I want to give it a shot! I want to stand up on my own two legs! I want to be a guardian for my people. Their _embodiment_. Their personification! I want to give him a new system. A new form of governance. One that finally grants them with more autonomy.”

Alfred’s head buzzed, his vile words finally catching up with his brain. The things he said, no! He didn’t mean them! He didn’t want Arthur to drop dead… No, he deserved freedom too!

“Run away with me again!” He said suddenly. He was making up his own plot on the spot. Rewriting everything. “We can run away, and join this cause… and we can finish this _revolution!_ We’ll fight it together and seize the day and we’ll both become republics and be together for –”

Arthur screamed out in agony as he forced himself to sit up, the ground pulling at the tender parts of his wounded arm as he pealed it away.

Alfred scooted backwards on all fours, shocked and horrified at what he saw. Arthur’s razor green eyes so were filled with anguish and outrage. It tormented his very soul to watch him at all.

“You marked your words, Alfred!” He growled, like a beast. An angry bear. A ferocious lion. “Years ago, you marked your words to me that you would wait! We would wait together for a new king! Did you forget that pledge? We were to wait for _his_ tyranny to end, and then we could live in peace together, with a new man reigning over us! Then we could have our greater autonomy, we could achieve it right then and there!”

“I didn’t mark my words for _that_.” Alfred countered bitterly, and Arthur watched him wordlessly, shaking and twitching as if he had been stung. “I marked my words that one day I would find peace with you, knowing that the truth was finally out there for the public to see. I marked my words to seek out the _truth_. And _this_ is the truth, Arthur; staying with a broken system requires lies and corruption to fester around it for the sake of its maintenance, and I just can’t stand that anymore! I want to break free from these lies! I want a shot at truth!”

For a short second Alfred feared Arthur was going to lunge at him. But he didn’t. Of course he wouldn’t. He simply sat, vicious and frustrated. Heartbreak so evident in his eyes. Alfred lowered his head in shame.

“The truth?” Arthur’s voice sounded so sardonic. “If this was really about the truth then how come every single rational compromise and fall for peace sent by Parliament has been rejected by that young and illiterate Congress of yours?”

Alfred’s breath came out all shaky. “Umm…” His eyes darted around the room. Arthur’s shadow was everywhere. “It… did not include the things that were wanted. They have made their declaration clear. I want full independence.”

Arthur tsked. “Well, I have met that Mr Adams you were speaking of earlier. Did you know that? No? Well, I met him on the eleventh. Very disorganized meeting, I must say. He came with a few other men from your _Congress_ –” he tripped over the word with cunning purpose – “while I worked alongside a good friend of mine. Vice Admiral Richard Howe,” he whistled. “You should have seen him in action.”

Arthur was mocking him. Those glares and those stares, and every single word was so overtly pronounced. Alfred started shuffling around subconsciously. He’d never been on the receiving end of so much malice from England before. It scared him. It made him want to break down. He hugged himself tightly, and furrowed his brows.

“Do you have a point here?”

“My point is,” Arthur bellowed, “that it was a stalemate, Jones. A _stalemate_. Howe was sympathetic to _your cause_ ,” he nearly spat the words out, like he had tasted poison. “And even then the whole thing still fell apart. The entire meeting was a waste of time; it was far too poorly managed! You cannot reach any _truth_ with disorganization to the likes of that, Jones. You should know that. You will get the same sort of tyranny you have right now, with your little ‘independence’ as you like to call it. Only then you will finally spot one little insignificant difference; the corruption has made its way slightly closer to your home.”

Alfred’s jaw tightened. “One failed argument between politicians isn’t going to stop me from trying to seek change.”

“And how will this change go about? Well then, Alfred. Answer me! How many Regulators have turned to _my_ side? Wasn’t the change you once sought akin to theirs?”

His side? Since when was there a ‘his side’ and ‘my side’ thing going on? Alfred couldn’t respond. He couldn’t move on. He wanted their arguing to stop. He wanted to run away.

“Almost all of them,” Arthur practically hissed at him. “Most of them now fight for the Crown. And they all have their morals and reasons, I assure you. I have read your declaration. They do not bite it. You may preach dignity for all but your people do not practice it –”

“My people feel for the dignity of man.” Alfred stood up and walked away. The tension in his limbs forced him to pace around the room. “They feel for it, I know it!”

“Do they?”

“Yes! They do! A considerable sum of my people! They’ve been inspired by my declaration! Those words speaking of ‘self-evident’ truths… they have inspired a longing within the souls of my people for the liberty of all mankind!” Alfred tried to reach out to him. He was practically pleading for their sparring to seize.

Arthur did not budge from his position. “Then how come some of the most subjugated peoples of these lands have turned their backs on your ‘establishments’ as you call them, and have turned to me instead? Why? Why do they fight for my forces instead? Why are they fighting for the Crown and my Empire?”

Alfred shook his head, his mind scrambling for a response for those words that twisted and dug into his skin. He started feeling dizzy again. His throat still felt like it was burning. “God forbid the cause of the Empire has more resources at its disposal to convince the masses with more ease.” He wanted to sound strong. But he knew he sounded weak. The fight in him was gone.

This version of Arthur scared him. He’d never seen it before, not to this extent. He wanted to reach out, to touch him and see those bright green eyes return to their normal and natural shade. He wanted Arthur to soothe him. To hug him. To tell him everything would be alright in the end, and they’d have their happy ending. He wanted to fight alongside Arthur, not against him.

It was like all his worst nightmares had come to life at once. Why was Arthur so _mad_ at him? He’d always believed in freedom too!

“You should be standing by me in all this,” he spluttered, thinking out loud. It didn’t make sense! No, it didn’t! Arthur should be agreeing! They should have been agreeing! “Arthur,” his voice was croaky. “You don’t have to go back. You shouldn’t! You might run into _him!_ How will you cope if he sees you? If he sends for you? You can’t do that to yourself! They’ve told you to go, but you don’t have to obey! We could be free! We could free ourselves from this together… We could find something new. We could start working for a better world!” He took Arthur’s hand in his own, but Arthur snatched it away.

“Together forever,” he uttered meekly as they locked eyes. He knew that was the final time he’d be saying that for a long while.

Arthur’s expression was frighteningly dark. He had moved himself already, no doubt during Alfred’s distorted state. He sat up against the side of the barn, holding his arm into position as he glared at him with blatant fury in his eyes.

“No.”

That one word said everything. And it shattered every single dream that naïve little Alfred ever had.

“You are stopping this right now. No more. You personify my Colonies. You will do as I say… But you are correct on one condition. You cannot leave my side. You will not go to Canada. No, you are following me wherever I go.”

“I…” Alfred was shaking. So Arthur was keeping tabs on him. Damn it all! But then, that also required that he… “No! I… I can’t – we can’t return to your house! We… we – we can’t!” He crumpled down into a ball; small shards of glass he’d long since forgotten about started cutting into his bare feet. But the pain was nothing to this new wave of dread.

“We can’t go back to him. You can’t make me! Arthur!”

“We will not be living with the King again.” There was a slight flash of misery in his voice. A show of penitence, of care for his dear Colonies. But then it was gone in an instant. “I have ensured that as my only condition. We are to leave with the men who will arrive with my physician.”

Alfred cringed as he hid under his hands. _Soldiers._ He’d have to be dragged off his land by _soldiers_ again. “We can’t live under that sort of tyranny again…” He whispered, feeling deserted by all that was divine. This wasn’t the way their conversation was supposed to go.

“When it comes to a war of rebellion, you are faced with tyranny no matter your choices.”

Alfred shook his head, silent as he scratched at his legs and feet and coughed to keep his lungs clear. It felt like Arthur was speaking in riddles.

“You may choose between a well-known tyranny; one you know you can endure. Or you may choose the tyranny of chaos itself.” His face hardened. He was cold and calculating. Unwelcoming yet controlling. Keeping watch yet in no way close. Far too much like his government than his people.

“When you are stepping into the realm of revolutionary politics, _America_ , you will find yourself stuck dealing with the politics of the unknown.” England flashed a falsified grin. “There, you will find that those are the only two choices you have the freedom to pick from; tyranny or _more_ tyranny.”

.

.

They could tell that Matthew and David had arrived again by the series of horse’s hooves clopping from outside. The two of them entered the barn in a haste, letting the colored rays of the morning light beam through the widely opened doors. Alfred felt some degree of relief to see barely any smoke pour in after them.

Matthew ran up to him, nearly collapsing in his arms. He looked exhausted, but also hopeful. “The fire’s gone down a lot!”

Alfred nodded, watching the ground. He wondered if he did a good enough job sweeping up all the glass for it to be suitable for guests.

“It has. I’m glad nothing else was destroyed.” David said as he showed his bandaged hand to Missy, who had sought shelter back in the barn a while ago. He looked like he was in a much better state of mind than when he had left them.

Alfred drew his attention back to England’s wounds. They were still so awful to look at, and they jerked at Alfred’s miserable heart. They certainly still warranted medical aid, but at least they had healed enough for a human not to question his survival for so long.

The humans entered. The physician – draped in maroon-ish clothes and covered with worn out wrinkles and greying hair – walked in with only one goal in mind. He made a beeline straight for England, carrying a case of clinking medical trinkets in his hands. He surprised Alfred with how attentive he was. He greeted his patient kindly. Told him things would be all right. Investigated his wounds. Listened as their horrific causes were casually explained to him as if the pain was all but nothing.

A man behind him cursed the arsons on England’s behalf, and Alfred snapped his head back to make glaring eye contact with him. Only he wasn’t the only man there. There were several soldiers standing by the door, all dressed in an ugly uniform that shared the same shade as semi-dried blood. They lined up with an unnerving sense of orderliness. He snarled at them, and they stared back like a vile pack of predators. He hated them so much already.

“Is there anything you could spare for the boy?” England asked his physician suddenly. He was pointing at Alfred, and a degree of affection was still evident through the sight of his quiver of his lip. Alfred looked back at him pitifully. England’s rage had subsided. He wished their argument could subside as well. “He cut his feet on some glass, and his throat has been stinging from the smoke.”

The man looked at him sympathetically. “I have some bandages here for your feet. But for your sore throat? I am sorry, I have no honey on me. You would have to send for my wife to help with that.”

Alfred nodded. He fiddled with the bandages as the man fed England some bottled opium. The redcoats started demanding everyone out the door. They needed to speak to ‘Kirkland’ in private. Alfred stalled his move, working with his bandages until the rest of his household left.

He looked up at the soldiers defiantly. Some protective instinct overcame him. He was not going to let those strangers be with England alone. Whatever they had to say to him, the could say to America as well.

“I’m not leaving!” He declared boldly, and to his great relief England agreed with him.

“He is part of my household. He is to stay with me.”

“He is not authorized to come with us.”

England raised an eyebrow impassively. “By whose demand?”

The ringleader hesitated. “It is assumed that you would be the only one returning with us.”

“Well, I cannot accept that. I assure you; it is in _your_ best interest if he remains under my watch.”

“We did not know you would have a little boy accompanying you.” Alfred’s blood boiled at the patronizing statement. “We have no ability to accommodate his addition to the crew. The supplies, the spacing… He cannot come with us onto the ship.”

The physician then strapped England down, and began pouring some sort of dark purple liquid onto his wound. England screamed out, but he didn’t budge. He held a hand out, grasping for something, needing to cling to something, and impulsively Alfred reached out to hold it. For a second, it was Arthur who squeezed it back.

What was that? An ‘I’m sorry’? An ‘I love you, no matter what’? A plea for the pain to stop? Alfred didn’t know, but he still clung to it. To his poor broken battered, scarred and soured England.

Silent tears escaped his eyes. Memories of Richmond Lodge came crashing back into his head. A certain event with blood by a bedside. A lonely voice begging for God to help them – to _save_ them! England had been blinded in one eye back then. Funny. It was akin to earlier in the fire, where the ashes of the wood had taken his sight. He had to be guided out the house instead of running free, out on his own.

America’s throat was still burning too. Occasionally, he’d feel a handprint there as well. He guessed bitterly that things hadn’t really changed after all. He wiped his wet eyes before those cruel soldiers could see him. They were his damned prison guards. An evil army of red. America hated them more and more by every second that passed.

England screamed once more, until he eventually passed out. The physician tried to make him as comfortable as possible, and he said soothing words to America too. He tried to calm him down, but he couldn’t. Because England had just passed out.

“Is he dead?” He cried frantically.

“He is not dead. I am sure… He is simply asleep. He will wake up in only a few moments, I promise you that.”

“Is he –” America yelped out in pain as a soldier grabbed him by the back of his clothes and held him up, forcing him and shoving him towards the door.

“He’s gone now. You no longer have to be in here.” It was the ringleader again, snarling at him as he handled him like a dog.

“Hey! Wait!” Another redcoat yelled. “There is no need to mistreat him!”

Most didn’t listen to him, however, as they all moved to shove America out, one of them pointing at England's unconscious body. “We are under strict orders! We must speak with him alone when he wakes!”

“But _he_ is a mere child, you barbarians!” The physician yelled. “Be kinder to his person!”

“When he wakes up, he’s gonna be so livid! You, you’ll be so…” America tried to bite them, to fight back, do _something_ , but they slapped him back instead. 

America froze, and the men used his slight moment of weakness as an opportunity, pushing him further out the barn.

Why did those slaps sting him? How the hell were they moving him out so easily? Why couldn’t he fight back? How…

How high up on the ranks were these stupid humans supposed to be?

America’s eyes widened as he realised just whose ‘strict orders’ these bastards must be following. His mouth hung wide open as he realised it was all a futile fight… if his suspicions were proven true at all.

By the time he had his senses again, they’d managed to fully toss him out the barn. And they kicked out the poor chickens too.

“Hey!” He screamed at them, trying to help the chickens as they squawked in fear and tired confusion, being so forcefully plucked and flung from their humble little nests. “The fuck is wrong with –”

They slammed the doors shut on him, right in front of his face. America heard a few sounds that sounded suspiciously like a barricade being built from the other side, and all he could do was shake his head in shocked and appalled disgust.

Fucking redcoats. They were sick. The lot of them!

He spun on his bandaged heels angrily before squinting at the daylight that nearly blinded him. He could see the twilight sky clearly. There was barely any smoke.

America clenched his fists. He looked down a little.

“Oh my God,” he moaned. How cruel some humans could be.

The pile of deflated black and charred rubble that settled where his house once stood… he felt ill the more he eyed it.

His home was gone.

Everything inside it too, there really was no hope for any of it. Some parts were still burning. America knew eventually the whole thing would be nothing but dust.

The Magna Arthur was gone.

He wondered if he could remember the words. Maybe then he could keep it alive, reciting it somehow. But right now he was far too exhausted to try.

Besides, every time he closed his eyes, he was forced to see that burning city again. Poor New York. Poor Massachusetts. Poor New England, Poor Thirteen Colonies. This entire thing was one big mess far, far too gone.

America was at the point of no return. He realized that now. Independence earned or not, more fighting was to follow. Fighting that would affect him firsthand, hurting his loved ones rather than strangers. Real blood on his hands, not only during his dreams, or in his occasional meditations.

He walked around absentmindedly, holding onto his shoulders tightly as he made his way closer to the bushes. Some chickens followed him. Others waddled off to do their own thing. He let them do as they pleased.

He let the grass brush up against his legs. He enjoyed the tickling feeling. He needed some comfort for such a sad day. He missed those soft simple days living in nature, without a care for anything else in the world.

And then he saw it. A little white blur. A hopping buzz on the ground. America found himself smiling.

It was a rabbit. So beautiful and so peaceful, yet also strangely curious as to why America was walking himself so close to it. America’s small smile turned into a grin as he watched it sniff a couple times and look at him with sheepish uncertainty. He’d always loved rabbits.

“Hey, little buddy.” He said kindly, cupping his palms and holding them to the ground so the rabbit could examine him. “Don’t worry. I’m not gonna hurt‘chya.”

It was a rare beauty. White fur and red eyes. Oh, how America had always adored rabbits. It made him feel sorry for the one England hunted earlier. He hoped they weren’t brothers or anything. That would be so sad, to lose your brother.

“Alfred!” Matthew’s distant voice called out to him. The little bunny bounced away. “Is he sleeping or something? I really didn’t think you would ever leave his side, even for a second. Certainly not for your last farewell.”

America was still watching the bunny as it left, partially hidden by the grass every time it hopped. He wondered if that was symbolic somehow. He looked at his brother, concerned. “The redcoats in there didn’t really make me feel welcome.”

Matthew frowned out of sympathy, immediately linking arms with him. They continued walking along the grass together, silent for a while, until Matthew spoke again.

“There is so much evil in this world,” he sighed. He didn’t need to gesture at what he was alluding to. The house was right over there. “I can barely tolerate living like this…” He clung to America tighter. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“You’re not going to lose me.”

Matthew smiled. “I know. We’re going to my house together. I hope you don’t get offended, but I’m excited to see my land again! Missy and Davie have even started calling my house their new promised land!” He turned to the space beside him for a second as America stood there, festering in guilt. “You should hear Kuma ramble on about it! He’s so excited to go back to his habitat!” He smiled softly at America before he shook his arm, stopping in his tracks. He looked a little concerned. “Alfred?”

America looked at him sadly. He swallowed dryly, and then he tried to keep his voice even as he broke the news. “I’m not going to your house, Mattie.”

Matthew’s smile dropped. “But… but you’re my brother, Alfred! We can’t split up again!”

“Matthew…” America tried. He gulped gruffly as they fell out of each other’s arms. He didn’t know how to word it properly. “ _Canada_.”

That’s right… there were _Canadian_ regiments in the Continental army, right? Or at least, one Canadian regiment that he knew of… Surely _Canada_ would know that too, right? Canada would be supportive and stand by America, wouldn’t he? Right?

He was not so sure. But now was his moment of truth.

“I’m declaring independence from England,” he said, far too bluntly for any comfort. A part of him wondered if he had gone completely _mad_ for saying it so casually. “ _What_ about you?”

Mad? Mad, huh? That fire had driven him mad! His serious façade melted away. God, he could feel the panic rise from within! How could he be so stupid to say such a thing? Why would he dare use that word on himself?

“ _What_ do you mean ‘ _What_ about you?’” Canada went bright red. “ _Independence!_ Are you serious?”

America’s whole body shook. He didn’t really mind, though. He was already in a lot of pain. _What_ was it to add a little bit extra, huh? Nothing at all! Jesus, he might as well go all the way. Because there was no turning back now! No, not now, when both England and Canada knew about it.

“Is that…” Canada hissed, far more quietly. “Is that where you've been all of those times you’ve run away? You… you’ve been working with the revolutionaries or something?”

“The Continental Congress,” America nodded, beginning to laugh. He felt oddly lighthearted. “You should see your face! You should see your shocked expression! C’mon, am I really that unpredictable? You’ve known me your whole life!”

“You’re a coward!” Canada screamed back at him. “Doing that… Saying such a thing after a time like this… Our house just burned down, Alfred! Davie just lost his hand! His livelihood is on the line, and Missy’ll have to scramble to find a new job! We have to say goodbye to Deborah! Everything they’ve ever feared. Has. Just. Happened!” His voice broke from all the stress and the tension. Curse living in a teenage body. “I have to say goodbye to you, Alfred… I have to leave you now! Do you have any idea how much that _hurts_ me? Have you gone _Mad?_ Why would you want any more of _this!”_

America’s laughter stopped dead in its tracks. “No! Canada, I –”

_“Canada?”_

“I want to be with you! I love you! And I love England too! And my people! That evil you spoke of earlier, I want it to stop! That’s why I’m doing this! I’m fighting for our freedoms…”

Canada watched him ramble on, his jaw slack and he eyes cold and frosty with rage. He shook his head, and in an instant, America knew. He closed his mouth, knowing all efforts to convince him would be futile.

“Yeah, you keep telling yourself that.” Canada shook his head before he looked out over to the hill. “Miz and Davie are signaling for us to follow them. We were supposed to check up on Arthur, then head out together. But if we can’t see Arthur, and you’re not coming…” He slowly backed away, willing to rejoin with the Williams. He may have shattered an expensive lantern earlier, but America… He had the malice to shatter his little brother’s heart.

“We’ll have to return the horse we had hired for you. It’s a massive shame; she really got along well with Peggy.”

America wished he had something persuasive to say. Something that would magically sway him, convince him to stay on his side. A piano song maybe. Something sweet with a catchy tune. Anything, anything at all! An argument that wouldn't fall apart the second that he said it...

Because he needed him. He needed the both of them. He couldn’t stand the idea of fighting this war alone. No, not when every fantasy America had ever had about revolution involved him standing side-by-side with those he loved.

“Stay safe with all this smallpox hysteria going around,” Canada said quietly before his final departure, sounding so drained and defeated. He gave America no time to respond before he’d made it up the hill already, falling into the loving arms of the Williams’ welcoming embrace.

America was left alone once again. He looked out into the open grass fields, waiting for that albino rabbit to pop its head up and show itself just one more time. Only then did he truly recognize the extent of all his dire decisions.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” he whispered to himself, feeling more lost and empty than he’d like to be.

He had no idea where to go next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Here we are! Finally at big bad chapter 27. I want to sleep for 1000 years now I've finished it...
> 
> I put a LOT of effort into this one, so I hope you enjoyed the angst!!  
> Comments mean the worrrrrld to me!! They help me continue.
> 
> Historical Notes:  
> [I'm putting them back-to-front based on the events of the chapter]  
> I'm tired as HECK atm so any grammar whoospies please forgive them.
> 
> Did'ya know there was a [Canadian Regiment](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1st_Canadian_Regiment) working on the USA side during the revolution? It received formal recognition as a unit from the Second Continental Congress on January 8, 1776. That's what Alfred is mentioning there.
> 
> 'I’m declaring independence from England/What about you' and 'What do you mean... are you serious[!]?' are genuine quotes straight from the World Stars comic.
> 
> During Alfred and Arthur's argument, Art mentions a whole heap of poor white and disadvantaged POC chose to fight for the British side. Part of this was because of ['the 1775 proclamation by British official Lord Dunmore, who promised freedom to any slave who fought on the side of the British during the war'](https://ushistoryscene.com/article/lord-dunmore/#:~:text=Dunmore%20decreed%20martial%20law%20in,anti%2DBritish%20sentiment%20in%20Virginia.) and the other part was that the well-established and better organized British Empire was quicker to seek diplomacy with different Native American nations. The Empire also promised economic stability for those who were poorer, thus making the fight for them so much more appealing. This was convincing for a lot of people, including many who had survived their hanging sentence for being involved in the Regulator cause.
> 
> Because the British weren't stupid. They did attempt to appease American ideals by lowering taxes and all that, but by then the war was too far in motion and the Continental Army was fighting not only for monetary issues, but also complete political independence from the UK. The meeting Arthur spoke about previously attending was the [Staten Island Peace Conference.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Staten_Island_Peace_Conference) The very well known Admiral Lord Richard Howe who was there [at the time he was just a vice admiral, though] was genuinely sympathetic to the USA but the meeting between him, John Adams, Franklin and Rutledge ended up being a failure 'cause [I'm sleepy, so I'll quote Wikipedia] "the Congress had recently declared independence from Britain, something Howe was not authorized to recognize, and because the American commissioners had no substantive authority from Congress either to negotiate." Even after that meeting, however, there were tons of other UK efforts to get America to just... please stop with the war lol. They ended up trying to appease them A LOT... It's actually kinda interesting to research just how freaking generous the UK was willing to be about it!!
> 
> The stinging and the hurt in Alfred's neck is supposed to be representation of the [Great Fire of 1776 in New York City.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Great_Fire_of_New_York_\(1776\)) [not to be confused with the the Fire of 1835...] On the eve of September 21, [ten days after the Staten Island Peace Conference btw] some randos decided to set a part of the city on fire. People still debate who lit it to this day!! But at the time, the small business city was an absolute political mess between Loyalists, British occupiers and angry rebellious Patriot forces. Of course, they blamed each other, but we'll never really know the truth... (It was probably some wild drunk tbh, [given where the fire actually started...](https://www.baruch.cuny.edu/nycdata/disasters/fires-1776.html))
> 
> oki doki!! that's it for now!! I am ecstatic to delete all these research tabs on mid-late 1700s medicine!! WOOHOO!! (btw that purple liquid the doctor used was wine) [also, the chance of David dying of gangrene is so mind-numbingly high I don't even know where to begin. Let's just say the power of believing in Jesus saved him XD ahh and headscarf tourniquets work miracles...]
> 
> As always, thanks for reading!!  
> I'll see you the next chapter, if you enjoyed this one!  
> I promise it'll be written at a much more reasonable length than this one!!  
> (and not 13,864 words, whoopsie...)
> 
> I love you all!!  
> Ciao~


	28. The year was 1776

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings [if you don’t need warnings, skip these spoilers]:
> 
> Haha, umm. The ‘period typical attitudes’ tag is realllly gonna start shining now this new character's been introduced... Holy Moly! lol you’ve been warned about him 'cause over the next few chapters I'm afraid he gets a wee bit worse… oof
> 
> \+ more seriously, the plot of this fic does require some semi-frequent interactions with the smallpox epidemic during the American Revolution so here’s a content warning for the next two chapters for those of you who need it. Please take care :)

It was as depressing as it was haunting, America wandering around barefoot with barely any clothes on. People mistook him for an orphan, and that wasn’t so far from the truth. People gave him food, they offered him new clothes. He was grateful, yes, but that wasn’t what he truly wanted.

His heart had suffered. He was charred, burned. His spirits were low. He was stripped of all he had. He needed a miracle. He wanted England back as if his life depended on it.

He’d lost him somewhere along the way, in some indescribable blur. A feud between himself, his colonizer, and a few nameless redcoated men. England wanted him to come along with them. He demanded it, ordered it, although in truth he had no power to achieve such a thing. Not only did his own soldiers object, but America as well. The confederation of loosely united Colonies wanted nothing else but to grab England by the unscathed arm and flee for the woods. They were running away from each other’s greatest desires, with no strength nor dexterity to fight back against their divergent pull of fate.

Their attempts to drag along the other didn’t work. The rope in their tug-of-war snapped. The will of an exterior force far greater than the both of them hauled England away, the empire left anguished and angry, no doubt very livid that he had no companion with him. America had been tossed to the dirt, the disputed colonies left aggrieved and outraged. Abandoned beside the ashes of his old broken home. He tried to give chase, but it gained nothing.

The loss filled his heart and made it feel heavy. He stumbled and coughed and cried as he cursed himself and shouted out to the Lord. He didn’t have anything else to lose but a war. Nor did he have anywhere to go but into the town, where the conflict had worsened.

So he found some flowers before he left. Something peaceful and pretty to hold onto before heading into the storm. He sat them down beside Deborah’s grave, giving the smoky rubble of broken dreams and shattered memories one last look before turning away. There was nothing to salvage there.

Plucking a few seeds from the luscious meadows, he used them to guide the chickens he once knew as chicks to the markets. He sold them and took the money he desperately needed without a word, patting them goodbye as he breathlessly thanked his brother. Canada had left them with him for this purpose, he knew it. He told himself that as he watched them be guided off into a new pen – a new home. A safer place. For some reason, he felt like that should have been a comfort. But it wasn’t.

He felt miserable. He would stare blankly into the crowds for hours as he haunted the streets of some of his oldest towns. Looming over them, hiding under it all. Sobbing in the alleyways, off to the side. Feeding off only the love and warmth his people were willing to give so charitably.

He would start to seem better, but then he’d see something heart-wrenching. Maybe he’d hear the sound of music, and he’d be instantly reminded that his piano rock was gone forever. Or he’d see a child play with her toys; all of Deborah’s toys were gone as well. Gifts, items of the arts, Bibles and books. The walls were littered with painting and engravings left by England and Canada and the Williams and America himself; they were all gone now.

The Magna Arthur was gone…

England was gone.

America struggled to move on as he moved throughout his land. The months rolled along, passing by in sync with his nomadic body but in no way connected to his stagnant mind. All he had were but a few rouge rabbits willing enough to greet him. Always around dusk and often at dawn. Little creatures, hunted by England. Eaten by the lion. He found himself following them more often than not.

Sometimes they took him to sweet places. Where the river would flow over mossy rocks and critters would crawl over his feet. Other times he’d follow them through the bushes and he’d pass through leaves after leaves until he’d soon spot a new town. The realm of nature would suddenly end, and his nervous smile would drop as he’d come face to face with reality again.

Until one rabbit in particular. The same one he’d seen by the barn. The way it bolted through the wind; the second America spotted it he knew it was on a mission. He chased after it quickly, allowing it to plunge him straight into a row of men, shoving some of them out of line accidently. He apologised half-heartedly, watching as that little red-eyed critter bounced happily into its sanctuary of tall grass off into the distance. He could have sworn it had given him one cheeky glance before departure.

But when he looked back at the complaining men, he noticed something completely different behind them. Something that caught his eye, and raised his hopes up. He forced himself forward once again, splitting the grievous men apart as if they were the Red Sea themselves, although the coats they wore had far more blue, brown or grey on them than any red. The corner of his lips nearly twitched upwards as he heard their protesting, and his eyes shone as he realized exactly where they were.

“Dear little rabbit of fate,” he whispered to himself with a strange buzz in his chest, “your guidance has taken me to a camp full of rebels!”

There was some more grumbling from behind him, and he turned back around to look at the men for some time. For a second he wondered if this cause was even worth fighting for anymore. But then something deep and primal came out from within, and he bolted just like that bunny for the innermost point of the temporary, scrappy, makeshift militia camp.

He could have laughed as he heard shouts from behind him. Demands for him to stop, orders for him to be captured. He finally let himself smile as he dodged man after man, twisting around the bends and so very delighted for the rare gift of some distracting fun.

Eventually, however, they surrounded him, but he had no fear of being overpowered. He held his arms up into the sky.

“Oops.” He let his hands touch and nearly poked his tongue out. “You’ve caught me!”

For a flash of a second, he saw England there. Running after him armed with nothing but a pillow. Laughing into his ear after pinning him down in one of their many games of roughhousing. America put his hands down silently.

He cleared his throat as he shuffled on the spot, bringing himself back down to reality. If he got this little speech wrong, he’d be in for a whole new world of trouble. “Could you inform me of the man who is in charge here? I have some –” he blinked a few times – “urgent news that need be delivered to him.”

It took time, and an abundance of convincing, but eventually he was finally handed over to the aggravated guidance of some infantry escorts, and then passed on to those who had more genuine curiosity and finer clothes. He was introduced to the man of highest command there, a man who – to his shock – recognized him instantly.

“Yes, I’ve heard my fair share of legends about you from Congress. We’ve been ordered to keep on close lookout for your arrival,” he said as he approached America and reached out to shake his hand. “It is an honor to be the first one to say it; welcome to your new home.”

Home… A new home. This place could very well be his new home. It was a place of national potential, of his own potential. A symbolic location where he could reach out and maybe even touch the experience of nationhood.

America shook the stranger’s hand silently, biting his lip and trying to keep himself from crying once more. If he were to become a new nation, become a _man_ , then he’d better start acting like one. He blinked a few times to dry his eyes out, staring at the stranger in charge with great determination.

“I am assuming you have no news for me other than your arrival.”

“That would be correct.”

The man nodded considerately, but then he stepped forward once again. He tilted his head, attentive to the details on America’s face. The semi-immortal took a step back.

“They were right.” The man sounded fascinated. “You do have an unnatural look from within your eyes. No, not even that. Something… supernatural. Something sad, frightened and lonely. I’m shocked. Everything they said about you is true.”

America glared at him. What the hell was that supposed to mean? Was he not supposed to be welcomed here? Was this place not only named his new home a few moments ago? Those unexpected statements made him feel so… uneasy. Far too queasy. Sickly, like he’d caught the disease that was plaguing his people.

He was directed away from the man in charge after they were through, and he was put straight into the system. He lived his life among the most unshaven of his men, and sooner or later he felt that time was passing far too quickly, with each day bleeding into the next. His distress built up as his morale went down, and no matter how hard he tried, no matter how often he would hold his head up high, those last few words that man had spoken to him still rang clear within his mind.

“I feel for you, my country. You look as though you are living through such immensurable pain.”

Were those words the explanation behind why he was given better clothes and better food compared to the rest, earning him all those envious eyes that would glare at him from across the frightening night time fire? Was he given special treatment due to pity? Or were these extra gifts an effort to watch him grow into something more?

He glanced up at the group of young men who sat around the fire with him, each of them digging into their rations of bread and meat as if there would be no tomorrow. Every man looked either gritty or grotty after surviving disaster after disaster. In these retched conditions, America had to learn to allow the tamed version of the flame to become his friend again, for the sake of warmth throughout the looming winter cold. It was also, in these retched times, early into the night when everybody would talk, and America would come out of his shell, learn more about his people, and better understand the cause that he had pledged himself to.

The current state of affairs, as they told it to him, were alarming. Everyone was petrified of catching smallpox, which was growing more and more rampant by the day. The King’s men and their Hessian friends had already managed to latch onto Long Island, and they’d taken scathing bites out of the rest of New York. Slowly but surely, they were swallowing up what was next on their menu – the New Jersey countryside, already indisposed and vulnerable from the wide spread of illness.

Many of his men thought of the war in their minds and saw it as already over; they spoke of it as if it were already a lost cause. It broke his heart to know that not only were his campfire buddies assuring him of such a thing being true, but every time he meditated he would be forced to feel the same sentiments there too.

It _terrified_ him. And to hear that this campaign had started off nearly twenty thousand men strong, once upon a time. That number had now dwindled down to barely twenty hundred…

America stood up. He handed out his share of food to the very grateful men around him, watching as the eyes of envy dissipated into something akin to respect, muttering about how he should retire for the night.

Sleep refused to calm his nerves the same way it once did, in what felt like a lifetime ago. There was no companion to hold him close and keep him warm anymore. Every dream was twisted and had him turned towards exhaustion. He had to go on walks every morning to merely begin shaking away the unsteady emotions.

That was, until one morning, when America spotted a couple of new arrivals behind the rows of men practicing with their firearms. Because one of them was… a man he _recognized_. A man he slowly approached with a sense of disbelief, holding a hand out to try and rid the daytime glare from his eyes. Was it really? Could it really be… one of France’s many minions had come to visit here?

“Baptiste?” He said silently as he continued to walk past the training men, gradually gaining ground through each step and shove through the mob. “How on Earth did you find this place?”

The kindly Frenchman was in polite conversation with a few other men as they checked him for rashes, listening ardently before they finished their gossip and pointed towards America for him. Baptiste turned his head, directing his cheerful gaze at the young personification as he gestured for the other newcomer to stand forward and introduce his presence.

America’s approach stalled by a few feet as he noticed a strange sensation emitting from the newcomer. Something supernatural; akin to himself. His clothes were heavy, and served to cover most of his body. For a second he almost looked like England under that dark massive hat, but no. His features were far too sharp, and his eyes were sculptured more square than circular. Not to mention the pigment of his…

“America, this is the man I have sent for to teach you the art of war, Mr Prussia!” Baptiste said proudly in French. “He will support you throughout your battle for independence. Please greet him.”

“Y-yes!” America responded in staggering English. So this man was Prussia, a personification from the Germanies. England’s favorite paternal cousin. He had only risen to political significance in recent years, after an eternity of bloody fighting and diplomatic climbing within central Europe. A… strangely colorless man with thin lines of white for eyebrows and lashes, and a seemingly serious disposition. America had no idea what to expect from him. So he had to keep an eye out, just in case.

America cleared his throat, focusing on his rusty French. “My name is…” He hesitated as he watched Prussia approach him, looking at him with purple-red eyes that shook so slightly from side to side. He swallowed, wondering how he should introduce himself. Baptiste had called him America so easily. His instincts told him it was safe to follow suit. “America.”

He took in a deep breath. For some reason that felt… so _right_ to say. “It is an honor to meet you,” he said, feeling the tension leave his muscles as he sighed in a moment of relaxation, and reached out his dominant hand instead of the one he’d trained himself so often to use. Oh shit, he’d stumbled. _You can’t shake someone’s hand like that._

He was about to snatch it away, but Prussia clasped it firmly with his own gloved hands as he whispered in English, “good thing I am left handed too.” He winked at him, and then he chuckled as America nervously smiled in reply, and they shook on it.

“I’m Prussia, as you know already. Training may be very difficult from where I’m from, but if you’re anywhere near as strong as the rumours say, then you should be fine!”

“Oh,” America responded dumbly. “Umm…” The Germanic nation was unexpectedly friendly. Almost laidback, but America had a feeling if he ever stepped out of line, he’d certainly get a lashing. “Your…” He didn’t know what else to say. “Your English is amazing.”

Prussia laughed, and it was loud and brash and boastful. “Yes, you could say it is rather awesome. Glorious! You don’t need to flatter me too much though, otherwise we will be here all day.”

Well, he’d finally met a worthy opponent for the arrogance of France, that was for sure. America found himself smiling at his egotistic antics anyway. He wondered how fun it would be to watch an interaction between him and England.

“You should thank _Gott_ I learned English for fun during those seven years of war.” The German turned back to Baptiste and waved his goodbyes, taking America by the shoulder and guiding him away for a more hushed conversation. “Now, is England around here anywhere?”

America’s head hung low as he sighed, dejected. “No. He hasn’t been with me for a while.”

Prussia rubbed his hands together. “Excellent.”

Excellent? America felt his face scrunch up. Was that supposed to be something he wanted? He watched as Prussia took in a deep breath, as if preparing himself for a long speech.

“You know, it took us a pretty long time to get everything organized. We had to negotiate alongside that general of yours – Washingdonne?” He snapped his fingers. “No, _Washington_. Ja. Him. He wanted to bargain the prices we’d originally agreed upon for the education I’ll be offering you,” he rolled his eyes overzealously. “So it took a little bit of prodding for us to finally get your location out of him.”

America blinked. He hadn’t seen Washington in what felt like eons. He wondered how the man was doing, residing to the west of the camp, plotting and planning his desperate next move while dwelling on the border of Pennsylvania. He prayed for the general’s next command to be at least something of a success, otherwise he feared the whole cause would die out.

Prussia let out a freakish laugh. “In the beginning, I failed to understand why you weren’t with him in the first place, but he said you were content slumming it down here with your men, and I’ve always respected that sort of sentiment, so I understand your choice now.” He shook America’s shoulder, all excitable. “Well, there you have it. We got your location without lowering my pay, and then France’s stand-ins did the rest and guided me here to you.” He chuckled affectionately, “oh, his infamous henchmen… They never grow old.”

America furrowed his brows. His head was spinning from the onslaught of information. “But… weren’t you two enemies? You and France?” He could have sworn that the Seven Years War, as it was called in Europe, was a battle between Prussia and England fighting together against France and Spain. If that were the case, then wouldn’t Prussia dislike France and his henchmen? He blinked a few times, wondering if he had remembered the war wrong.

“Hey, Old Fritz and I may be currently feuding with France’s… more _aggressive_ superiors, but I’ve known that nation for a far longer time than this little quarrel. I don’t have the malice to say we’re not friends. Besides, my people love him far too much, despite his upper class being full of a bunch of…” He snarled, whispering something foreign under his breath. Then he shook his head and readjusted himself, as if nothing had happened at all.

“Business is business anyway. France is supporting me while I’m over here because he needs to plot his revenge against England somehow. I’m here because I need money… and England really fucked me over by the end of the last war.” He crossed his arms as he smirked at America. “It’ll be fun making him angry for a little while.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, but you’re a bit too late for that, Mr Prussia. I think I’ve already made him very angry.”

Prussia laughed. “Is that so? _Schiet_ , you haven’t even fought in this war yet!”

“I’ve said some outrageous things.”

He laughed again. “Tell me, have you ever even fired a gun?”

America bit his lip as he fiddled with his fingers. “No…”

“Oh,” Prussia smiled, his teeth bared and looking razor sharp. The red in his eyes made it look like they were glowing. “This is going to be fucking fantastic!”

Prussia continued to walk ahead of him, through the camp as if he were the one who’d been staying there all these months and not America. He continued his ranting, and America couldn’t tell if he had remained quiet due to fear or due to interest.

“Good old England. His people really think that most of yours are still loyal to him!” He spun around and walked backwards, his head held high with pride as he looked over America. “I don’t think a few shots from his gun will scare off this sort of rebellion. Even after he crushes you, this war will be embedded into your culture forever. Your people won’t forget this.”

America stopped. “You think he’s going to crush me?”

Prussia followed his actions, albeit with a tilt of his head. He took a single step closer, what could have been only an inch shy of invading America’s personal space. A step of curiosity, to see how he’d react. “You shouldn’t lie to yourself. The chance of his surrender and your win here is very slim. You should know that… I hope you know that. Right?”

America could have laughed. There was almost an etch of concern in his voice. He wondered what Prussia would be like as a father. “Yes, I know that.”

Prussia nodded. God, his posture was so straight. The only thing informal about him was his expression.

“Just look into your eyes, though.” He shook his head, and America frowned, confused. “They’re so blue. So young, so naïve… You think you’re ready for war. I know that look well enough to –” Prussia took a step back, reinstating the space that was previously between them. The space that he originally had broken in the first place. A sudden crack of sadness showed on his face before he rubbed a gloved hand over his temple. “ _Gott_ , why must I always get headaches at the worst of times.”

America stood in a state of shock. This man truly was a weird one.

Prussia shook his head to rid himself of his bad mood. “ _Nee_ , one look at you, and it’s as clear as day. You’ll see through this war until it ends, no matter how unfavourable that ending is for you. Who knows, if you manage yourself well and reach out to the right allies, you might actually have a genuine chance at seeing some of those terms of yours written into law.” He chuckled. “Or maybe if England runs out of food for his soldiers before you do, you might just win entirely.”

“Or if this epidemic finally decides to be done with itself.” America nodded as he took in Prussia’s words of experience. “I fear it may be the downfall of this movement, if it continues the same way it has countless times before. Meditation has made me think it so.”

“Possibly.” Prussia hummed thoughtfully. He gestured for them to start walking again, and he led the way in the same manner as before. “In that case, you try your best to do your part, then you leave the rest to God and,” he pointed to himself rather proudly, and that canine smile returned once more, “His physicians.”

America’s curiosity bubbled up more and more as he barely managed to keep up with the Germanic’s fast walking pace. A physician, huh? He wondered how long ago a nation like Prussia had been made a doctor. He wondered what he did back in Europe. He wondered why exactly a nation would feel the need to travel across the ocean for some extra money, because spite really couldn’t be the only other reason he was here, could it?

But the things he wondered the most about, oh he had no hesitation to ask those as questions. “Where are you taking me? Are we going anywhere in particular?”

“We’re going back to the carriage I came here with, and then we’ll be heading west. This day won’t last forever. We need to get a move on if we’re ever to arrive at the place I’ll be training you in time.”

America was unsure about that. He looked around the busy camp, uncertain. “Are we leaving with Baptiste?”

“Who?”

“That French human who introduced us earlier.”

“Ahh, him.” Prussia tilted his head up in recognition before he shook it. “ _Nee_ , he’s not coming with us.”

“Oh.” America frowned. “Well is he…” His eyes scanned the landscape as he tried his best to spot the Frenchman in the mob. “Is he happy being left here on his own?”

“Oh, definitely. He’s claimed to have other stuff to busy himself with while he’s here. Don’t worry about him.” With that, Prussia paused, snapping his fingers again as he eyed America thoughtfully. “Speaking of stuff, do you have anything you must gather before our departure?”

America’s eyebrows raised as he slightly lowered his head. “Are we not coming back here?”

Prussia huffed, amused. “Does it look like we are?” He said as he put one hand on his hip, and the other gesturing around the camp.

America found himself laughing at the blunt indirectness of his answers. “Well, if that is the case, then no.” He smiled brightly. “I’ve got nothing to my name at all!”

Prussia’s own smile shone as well. It was the same kind smile he had on before, the softer one he’d shown during their handshake. “Ahh, that was me at one point in time as well! I owned nothing but a single rusting sword and some vague memories of the scripture that’s since been drilled into my head. Look at me now, huh? A great European power! You’ll be able to build yourself up soon, don’t you worry, America.”

America laughed again, and he was smiling once more as well. Prussia’s words had excited him. Helped revive some remnant of his passion for progress. Resurrected his desire for change, even though in some places it still felt rotten. He craved more information; he needed to find a way to make it all work out in the end.

“So… you said something earlier about having the right allies, and then I might finally have a chance at winning –”

Prussia opened his mouth to correct him –

“Were you speaking of anyone in particular?” America didn’t let him butt in. Instead he smiled as he skipped around in circles, giggling as he watched Prussia’s eyes slowly follow him around, the other man clearly deep in thought. “Who do you think I should be friends with? The other Germanic nations?”

With a snarl, Prussia spoke instinctively. “Not Austria or Saxony. I’ve had enough Silesian wars with them to last a lifetime.” His aggression then turned a little more playful. “I’m irrevocably a great power now that those battles have ended, and we’re finally having some Hubertusburg Peace. I can’t have an outsider like yourself rocking the boat of allegiance when it had only just settled, now can I? Not when I can’t swim.”

America’s expression turned grave as he stopped his moving and looked away. He sounded far too much like England just then.

“Stick to chatting with France. His supremacy over Europe has been gravely threatened due to the last war and he’s desperate to reinstate it. For now, I think he is your best chance. Who knows, you might even eventually receive direct military support from him, if you manage to prove to him that this will be worth it in the end.”

America wasn’t listening. He was still wallowing over Prussia’s previous words. “Are you sure you should be telling me about your ability to swim? Or how my allegiances could be dangerous for you? Aren’t you worried that if I ever become your enemy, I could hold all of those facts against you?”

Prussia blocked the sun from his face as his eyes opened wide, and he cackled loudly. “Ohh, a strategist already, are we? Looking for ways to drag me down in the long run? Oh,” he pretended to wipe tears from his eyes. “Don’t you worry about me. I think I’ve learned enough from France and his people by now to know that separating politics from one’s personal life is the way to go.” His face was too strained. “I’d advise you to do the same if you wish to make it in this world.”

America sighed as he crossed his arms.

“Speaking of personal relations, I’m pretty sure your next belligerents will include some German boys.” Prussia whistled. “This will be fun to observe.”

“You’re speaking of the Hessians, right?”

“Hessians? As in from Hesse-Cassel and all the other counties around him?” Prussia paused, thinking for a second. “Ahh, I suppose a good majority of those fighters would be Hessian-born.”

America narrowed his eyes in confusion. “You’re saying not all Hessian soldiers are… Hessian?”

“No,” Prussia laughed. “I’m saying not all Germans fighting in this war on England’s side are Hessian. They’re from all over Holy Rome.” He drew a circle in the air, as if drawing over a map. “But you’re probably right, most German soldiers who end up working under the British brothers are from somewhere around Hesse-Cassel anyway. They’re on good terms with each other… He’s on good terms with Austria too…”

Prussia’s face contorted in frustration, and America tried his best to hide the small sensitive smile that formed on his lips.

“He prefers Austria over me.” He said it as if he couldn’t believe it, gesturing at the air aggressively. “Austria!” An angry guttural sound exerted from his lips. “Damn it! Do you know how hard it is to get everyone to work together in this Empire we share when he’s over there getting everyone to pick their own sides between the two of us!”

Now America was _really_ trying hard to hide that smile.

Prussia sighed, holding a hand over his forehead and rubbing his temples, muttering about how his headache had worsened. He let out a loud sound of resignation. “Sometimes I just want to fly away from the whole damn thing,” he said sadly. But his voice, while exasperated, was devoid of any serious intent. A strange, intangible expression crossed over his face, and suddenly America felt bad for smiling at his misfortune.

He watched as Prussia stared at him for a while, the shine in his shaking eyes abstract and unsound. “You have Germans. You know of the sentiment I am referring to, right?”

America did indeed have his own Germans. “Yes. I’ve often heard them refer to your situation over there as a… cultural bloodbath? The Holy Roman Empire is repeatedly described as a _sickly_ mess.”

Prussia raised his eyebrows and blinked a few times, almost as if he’d been stunned.

America startled, apologising and struggling to reword himself as he wondered just how badly that sounded. He had no idea what Prussia’s place in that empire was. He could be skating over thin crackling ice by saying such things, and he’d never really been a person suited for the cold. That had always been the realm of his brother.

But Prussia dismissed him with a wave of the hand. “Ohh, I see. Not as oblivious to the happenings of Europe as I originally expected of you.” He clapped his hands together, his black gloves deafening the sound of their contact into a _thunk_. “Awesome!” His smile was ardent. He seemed so extremely proud of himself. “I’m impressed you know something about us Germanies, seen as how we’re often overshadowed by the others.”

America wondered if he could blame his nervous blush on the winter weather worsening around them. “Well, I’d hope I’d know at least a little bit about the domain of the Germanies. My very first paper mill was established by a group of Germans, and the first Bibles they ever published were in German too. Knowing that, I’ve always thought it important to study these people who've made up a small part of me for some time now, as well as being the first of my people to publish of the Holy book in a European language.”

“Oh!” Prussia immediately stood to attention, and America had to jump back a bit in shock. Whoah… This was something Prussia was passionate about. “Oh, I knew there was a reason Old Fritz was starting to grow fond of you!”

His red-purple eyes were blazing as his walking shifted to marching, and he sped up the pace so much they were practically running to where his carriage was parked. America couldn’t help but laugh as he trailed after him, feeling mesmerised at how abruptly Prussia had become impassioned.

“So tell me,” he said when America finally caught up to him, and was jogging by his side, “which dialect of German were these Bibles written in, huh?”

America pursed his lips. How was he supposed to know that? “Umm.. the Martin Luther dialect?”

“ _Hochdeutsch_ ,” Prussia smiled puckishly. “I see. That makes the most sense. A Lutheran plea for linguistic universality…”

They eventually gained far more ground than they ever could have dreamed of while walking. Prussia was especially content with the progress they’d been making, and he pointed it out so fervently.

“We’ll be heading out to meet up with Washington in no time!” America pouted, surprised but willing to roll with it. He had no idea they were meeting up with Washington. “After that, we’ll be training alongside those volunteers who work overtime for extra pay.”

“You mean the minutemen?”

“Ja! They’re significantly younger, so we’ll blend in a bit more hanging out over there –” he pointed to the ground – “instead of here.”

The sudden sound of striding footsteps surpassed his voice in volume, and America leaped back, bumping into Prussia as he watched a unit of soldiers march right past them, nearly brushing against his shoulder. It felt like they had come out of nowhere.

“You’re very jumpy, aren’t you?” Prussia teased him as he pulled him further away from the men. “ _Du büst en Hos._ ” He chuckled. “A very little jumpy rabbit.”

America couldn’t help but sigh as the men continued to pass through, eventually ending their line and opening up the now slightly distant camp for viewing again. They stayed there for a while, watching everyone walk around with purpose in every step, until Prussia made a strange huffing sound, as if he’d been amused by something.

“This is insane! I usually always find plenty of women waltzing around in military camps. Even back during the crusades, there were boorish women walking around everywhere. But here, no. The few women who I have managed to spot, they’re acting all prim and proper!” He struggled to speak through all his laughing. “You Americans must be either way too broke or too religious to have women of ill repute deciding there’s no use in thrusting their petticoats up around here, I tell you!”

America felt himself go bright red. He tried to close his mouth after it hung open, and he cleared his throat as he looked around to watch out for his women, feeling protective of them. “Most women here have to prove their wedlock to a man in the camp before they are permitted to follow,” he said, trying to sound strong. “If they’re found to be of…” He shuffled on his feet, “dubious character, then they are sent away. We’re all far too worried about the spreading of sicknesses as it is. My leaders don’t really care for both syphilis and smallpox to be going around at the same time.”

Prussia’s laugher continued. The whole entire stupid ordeal had entertained him far too much. America let out a displeased huff of air, crossing his arms again as he kept his thoughts to himself.

“Ja, but bans like those rarely ever work. People just hide themselves in the deepest darkest corners of the city…” He trailed off, and America already knew where he was going. “It’s a shame all those brothels in New York burned down during that terrible fire a few months ago. Now your boys still around there have nowhere else to turn to!” America looked away as he smirked at him. “Heh, I almost feel sorry for them. And I say that as a staunch Lutheran. Hah! Maybe it was God’s doing, striving to keep your army Holy for such a righteous cause in battle.”

A small part of America was laughing along. He could see the humor in it. But another part of him was just so desperate for a subject change. “You’re a Lutheran?” He queried as his voice crackled, like there was still some residual smoke left in his lungs.

“Oh ja, I'm Lutheran.” If Prussia noticed his distress, he didn’t acknowledge it. Instead he continued walking along. America was thankful for it; it helped him move on a little quicker. “Although, the House of Hohenzollern is Calvinist. So, I suppose..." He frowned as he waved his head from side to side, as if tossing up his options. "I suppose that’s influenced me quite a bit as well."

“The House of Hohenzollern!” America exclaimed in recognition. He always found that name so fun to say. “That’s umm… King Frederick, right?”

Prussia nodded proudly. “You’re right! Granted, he would describe himself as more of a Deist. He’s caused a bit of grief between the Catholics and I, which sucks because I used to be Catholic...” He huffed. “Hell, some of my own flesh and blood are still Catholic, too!”

America blinked. “Umm… could you define Deist for me?”

“It’s just another fancy way to say you believe in God. ‘ _Jeder soll nach seiner Façon selig werden’_ ; that is a virtue I must honor for him. However, if I _could_ have it all my way, then he’d be a Lutheran too… and if Austria ever chose to finally back away from the Empire,” there was a touch of venom on his tongue, “then the rest of the Germanies could finally enjoy the fruits of Lutheranism as well..." He sighed, as if he were thinking of a land only seen in his wistful dreams.

"So,” he said as he turned his red fiery eyes to America. A sweet smile was on his lips as he asked inquisitively and narrowed his eyes, “which denomination are you?"

America did not want to answer that. “Umm…”

“Oh, wait! Look! There it is, do you see it?” Prussia grabbed his shoulder and eagerly pointed out to the distance. There, in the view past his arm, stood a rather large house. A lovely house, now refurnished for war, looming over a series of parked carriages and providing shelter for dozens of dozing-off horses.

“See the yellow-red one?”

“Uhh… yeah?” America could have wiped the sweat from his brow.

“That one is ours!”

“Oh! Really?” He honestly thanked God for the distraction.

It was a really nice looking carriage. He wondered if Prussia was wealthy enough to hire or buy that, then why would he be desperate enough to cross the ocean to make any sum of money? It must’ve been Baptiste’s ride. Or at least, it had been paid for by France.

Prussia guided him there, then he left to speak to a few men around the corner and prepare the horses. When he returned, only a few moments later, he looked ecstatic.

“Look how awesome I am! I scored the spotted ones,” he beamed as he got America to help out with the shaft and the reins. He negotiated for a driver, and when he managed to get one he began coaxing America into the body and on the passenger seat.

He turned around to check all their outside surroundings just before hopping in himself, but then he stopped himself. “Oh, wait wait wait! Is that a woman I see? Oop, look at _her_ , she’s getting really _close_ to that one particular soldier there…”

He dug into the pocket of his heavy long-sleeved jacket, pulling out a strange circular looking glass that seemed thinner in the middle than it did along its outside ring. He held it close to one of his eyes, and then let out a distinguished sound of discontent before dropping it back into his clothes.

“Ahh, nope. No woman would have her muscles like that.”

America peered over his shoulder to get a good look at the person out in the distance, wondering why Prussia would even need a looking glass to see something so far away anyway. He caught sight of her immediately, recognized her, then frowned. He spun around, sitting back down into his seat while shooting Prussia an unimpressed look.

“That’s Mr Brown’s wife,” he said slowly, almost dumbfounded by how rude he’d been. She – along with all the other renowned women walking around – was known as a camp follower. They stayed loyal to their soldiers, living beside them as they attended to their basic needs. Their cooking, their cleaning, all their nursing back to health. Hell, even some women would scavenge supplies and help carry ammunition on the battlefield. The entire war would fall apart without the Patriot’s wives and daughters. And here Prussia had insulted one of them.

“Oh, I see.” He nodded, seeming remorseful for only a second. He shoved at America playfully, moving him over so he had room to sit in the carriage as well. “She here for a conjugal visit then, huh?”

America didn’t know what he meant by that. But the carriage was moving before he could even ask.

The ride was surprisingly swift. He focused on the fun parts of Prussia’s personality, finding that he liked him very much. There were just a few wounds he’d have to be weary of treading on, and a few things he found irritating to hear.

The nation was a masterful storyteller, although he was nowhere near as good as England. His stories were all more realistic and about a battleground, or they were deep in the forest – dark, pessimistic and morbid. He strayed from fantasy, or if he covered the topic of magic, it would be twisted and evil and frightening. America found himself horrified, but also enthralled, and he couldn’t stop himself from listening for most of the time.

Prussia taught him a few German hand games. A few mind tricks. A couple of battle tactics. He found himself having a good time. Relaxing almost… Until their carriage passed an open tent full of wounded men and desperate healers.

America couldn’t look away, and to his great surprise, Prussia respected his sentiments. He let him stare at his own men as he whispered out a prayer for them. A strong, inspiring German prayer. America found it comforting. He blinked a few times, refusing to let a tear fall down his face, before he turned to Prussia and thanked him.

“Oh God, we need a victory now.” He whispered as he felt the cries of his people reach out and tug at his very soul. “We can’t have another loss… We need to make ourselves a new victory, quick.”

Prussia nodded. “I suppose that would be Washington’s job to organize.”

“It would be.” He murmured, looking out the carriage again only to see another tent of bedridden men, this time far more isolated than the rest. This time riddled with red lumps on their faces. America bit his lip, and seconds later he tasted blood.

Their arrival to what Prussia called the Keith House couldn’t have come soon enough. They met with Washington immediately, and America found himself almost jealous over how familiar Prussia seemed to have made himself with the general. Although, he was still uncertain if he could even trust the man, or even the house for that matter. He kept himself standing by the door, just in case.

“I am anticipating great things from your training,” he told Prussia in a soft voice, and the nation bowed his head curtly in thanks.

“And you as well,” he turned to face his country, and America felt a jolt of energy rush right through him. “I am hoping to see you in action when you’re ready.”

America nodded, remembering with remorse all that he had seen these past few months. “I am hoping to see action full stop. With our recent stagnation and constant retreats, I fear my people will soon give up the good fight.”

General Washington hummed in affirmation. “I am aware my next plan must create a victory. The original contracts ensuring a year’s worth of enlistment from our infantry will be expiring soon. I have to find some way to persuade these men into reenlisting. That is why I have decided –”

He picked up a small cylindrical ornament, and placed it on the large map that draped over the table. America leaned in to see where he had put it. It sat like a little bridge, closing the gap made by an elongated river that stretched right across the middle of the map. He looked back up at the general, shocked.

“– to lead our men across the Delaware River. Then we may take the lead and have the enemy surrounded.” He moved around some more discolored ornaments in a circular fashion, promptly toppling over a series of red twigs. “And we could achieve ourselves an outstanding advancement, and a much needed boost in these militia’s morale.”

America gasped, and Prussia whistled loudly.

“I tell you, sir,” he put a hand on America’s shoulder and shook him lightly. “An ambitious military offence to the likes of that? It’ll be the most brilliant in the world’s history, if you manage to pull it off.” He beamed as he caught America’s eyes and winked at him. “I’m looking forward to witnessing it.”

Washington nodded, but then he looked to America, concerned. “Do you believe yourself well equipped enough to participate in this?”

America felt their steady gazes on him and him alone. He started overheating from the nerves. “Umm…” He started. “I don’t know.”

The general noticed his edgy state, and considered it for a while until he finally sighed and accepted the situation he’d been handed. “Very well, I understand. May I ask, as an alternative, for the greatest concerns you’ve had while living in the camps, then? If you are unsure whether are ready for battle or not, then I would prefer it if you focused on your duties as a personification instead of being a soldier for now.”

America exhaled. He felt deflated in a way, slightly disappointed. But he can see why such a conclusion had been made. Prussia hadn’t even begun his training yet. America didn’t even know how to fire a gun. He lowered his head slightly, and brushed away the bangs of hair that fell into his eyes. “Yes, I can do that for you.”

“Now, as you personify the people, you are the only one who can fully understand the extent of their suffering. Once you inform me of the things that ail them the most, I can give you access to certain powers. Then, you will be allowed to participate in the alleviation such ill conditions yourself. Does that sound like a good plan to you?”

America took a big breath in. “Yes,” he said firmly.

This was his perfect chance! This was exactly what it meant to serve as a nation. That fantasy he’d always had in his head, this ideal world that England had always talked to him about. Having a boss who would actually respect him and listen to him as he did his job as the voice of his people. One of the biggest reasons he was fighting for this war, for _himself_.

“So,” he began, and he could feel himself feeling elated already. He was prepared to finally do something about all the pain. “A lot of the men are frightened over the smallpox outbreak, sir.”

Washington nodded his head. “As am I. That illness has been one of my greatest frights ever since my youth.”

America made himself stand up straight, and for what felt like the first time in forever, he was beaming with a great sense of hope and pride, and the easing feeling that everything might actually end up alright.

“Then I say we should do something about it,” he said firmly. After all, he was a voice for the people, and this was one of the greatest things they had demanded change for, in both the camps and in meditation.

He looked over to Prussia, who was staring at him with an affectionate smile on his face as he leaned up against the wall. He seemed to be really enjoying where this was going, and it looked as if he was waiting for something in particular.

“I have been debating mandatory inoculation for all soldiers with every official who has come in here for weeks now. I believe your commands have finally convinced me enough; we will go through with it. This is especially important now, as winter is finally settling in. By early next year, we should hope for most of our men to be immune. I am expecting you will help out with this process?”

America nodded eagerly. “I’d love to.”

“Good… We will need someone to train you in medicine, however.”

Prussia grinned wickedly as he kicked off the wall and walked forward, reintroducing himself back into the conversation with almighty prowess. “Oh, I can help out with that.”

“So is this still how we agreed it to be?” Washington raised an eyebrow, almost seeming alarmed.

“Oh, no. Same price as before.” Prussia waved out a hand. “Don’t worry. I’d do this any day of the week for free.”

“Then it has been agreed upon.” He concluded, holding a hand to his chest.

America had to hold in a chuckle as he watched Washington express his relief. It made him wonder just how terrible it was to deal with Prussia’s bargaining.

“Thus, I shall play my part, and you will have yours. Let us pray, that by next year, both the hope and the health of our army will be repaired via successful battles and swift inoculation.”

America closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. “Yes,” he silently whispered. “Let us pray.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- By December 1776, the situation for the Patriots was looking very glum. Morale was at an all-time low, and many hungry men had given up/chosen to go home. [The American Battlefield Trust made a pretty interesting video covering it!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0JLvRJzvOic&ab_channel=AmericanBattlefieldTrust) Washington just couldn't get enough of retreating in the early war, could he? Lol America really needs France to show up like RN...  
> \- The way that Gil meets Al here is loosely based on the manga! They both shook with their left hands, which I found interesting to expand upon using some headcanons ;)  
> \- Prussia’s here a little earlier than the famous Baron von Steuben [who arrived in 1778]. But he’s later than the wild Baron de Woedtke, who served in mid-early 1776 until he became sick either from smallpox or INTENSE alcoholism, and retired. I guess Gil can act as sort of segue officer to help Steuben fix their reputations XD  
> \- A popular name for HRE back then was ‘the Germanies’ so I used that! Same with my overuse of the term 'carriage'... the word 'wagon' didn't really exist until the 1800s!!  
> \- I’ve tried my best to respectfully represent how I see Gil’s albinism. He wears gloves and heavy clothes for photosensitivity, although he pretends it’s for the cold. The shake in his eye’s called nystagmus; it can cause headaches. And because of something called foveal hypoplasia, I headcanon he’s got a pretty mild [as he is a nation] type of myopia. Al found his concave ‘looking glass’ weird because, while farsighted glasses were common for older people back then, myopia was still extremely ‘rare’, and eyewear for it was still associated with witchcraft!!  
> \- After the Seven Years War, Old Fritz and his people decided they disliked their ex-ally England for him stabbing Gil in the back at the very last second. Although, despite some aristocratic animosity, the common people of France and Prussia still very much liked each other – even though they fought on different sides! I think deep in his heart Gil still likes Artie, though. He just doesn't trust him...  
> \- Since Prussia started off as a German Hospitaller branch [The Teutonic Knights], I headcanon that he’s amazing working with medicine! He’s also speaking a form of Plattdeutsch a bit throughout the fic; ‘du büst en Hos’ meaning ‘you are a rabbit’, if I’m correct.  
> \- My proud baby, he’s now an established Great Power, since the Treaty of Hubertusburg has been signed :D … poor Austria and France, though. Their boats of power have been rocked...  
> \- About 65% of German soldiers fighting for the British were actually ‘Hessian’ lol  
> \- The first paper mill of America was built by William Rittenhouse, and the first full Bibles were published by Christopher Sower in Germantown, PA [look them up, they’re pretty cool]!!  
> \- The ‘Hochdeutsch’ we know as today’s modern Standard German is really different to the ‘Frühneuhochdeutsch’ Martin Luther used to model up a universal German language. But that word means “Early Modern High German” and I thought it wouldn’t makes sense for 18th century Gilbert to call it ‘early modern’ so I had him simply call it ‘High German’.  
> \- [Women/camp followers were expected to be “honest, laborious Women”](https://allthingsliberty.com/2014/04/8-fast-facts-about-camp-followers/) and they were vital servants to the war effort! [According to Professor Linda Grant De Pauw](https://www.socialstudies.org/sites/default/files/publications/se/5802/580204.html#:~:text=During%20the%20Revolution%2C%20there%20appears,that%20underlay%20the%20Revolutionary%20ideology.) at GW university, prostitutes were really rare in Al's military camps because American men were way too poor AND religious to have them XD yeah, and most brothels in NYC did burn down in that scandalous September fire ;) Doesn’t really matter cause Washington banned everyone from them anyway lol.  
> \- ‘Jeder soll nach seiner Façon selig warden’. This is a Prussian virtue taught by Frederick II, meaning ‘Let everyone find salvation according to his own beliefs’. But oh dear, Prussia’s still got some evangelical Lutheranism in him. I’ve taken that from real life Prussian politics just after Fritz dies. Gil will try to make HRE more protestant later on… and he’ll make some stupid mistakes because of it.  
> \- The Keith House is where General Washington planned the battle of Trenton/crossing of the Delaware River! Look it up, it looks pretty nice.  
> \- Prussia calling that battle ‘the most brilliant in the world’s history’ is a direct quote from Frederick the Great after he heard about its success.  
> \- There’s some really strict stuff coming from Washington’s response to smallpox! Eg, he barred anyone from Boston (its epicentre) from entering the military zone… I’ll dig a bit more into my sources in the next chapter ;)


	29. The year was 1777

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *** descriptions of medical procedures, could make some people queasy.
> 
> thanks for your patience with this one!  
> feedback really keeps me going!! <3 <3
> 
> enjoy~

America flicked through the stack of papers in his hands as he sat at his desk. A strong sense of satisfaction filled him to the brim as he glanced over the long list of names; every man on that list had been successfully inoculated, now protected from smallpox for the rest of their lives. And he was the noble one who’d carried out the procedure on all of them.

It had become second nature over time. The same practice, again and again. Precise, disciplined, and almost rhythmic. A swift, proficient and methodical routine. America wasn’t used to things moving so smoothly, but Prussia had taught him so well, he couldn’t help but sing along to the order of things.

Scratch off a small scab from any man with a mild case. Let its liquids cover the knife and let that knife rest on the forearm. Watch as little dollops of red blood slowly rise to the surface, then press down and push along a few times. Ensure that the slight dose of deadly pus had kissed the patient’s damaged flesh. For then after that procedure, the continental army should see one more man prone to one less disease.

He’d only been able to inoculate volunteers so far. Those willing enough to sit before a mere child and dance with both death and trouble with the law. All eyes would be on him as he’d perform the procedure, the beady uncertain eyes of the wounded human and his friends, and the studious stare of Prussia’s constant supervision.

The men would always fall to the sickness for a short amount of time after it was done. But when they recovered, as they most often did, it would be with a newfound strength, and an invisible shield to the disease. A miracle of barely understood science.

America smiled at the list of names, placing the papers back down onto the table. Pride filled his heart as he reasoned with himself; he’d done a good deed.

The door slammed open suddenly, and America jolted as Prussia burst through into the room. “Don’t slouch,” the kingdom commanded. Then he swung the door shut.

America’s instincts demanded that he sat up straight, although he relaxed immediately afterwards as he noticed Prussia’s attire.

“Why are you still wearing that?” He laughed gleefully, gesturing at those heavy long sleeves and thick black gloves that crazy man still sported. Oh, he meant no malice with what he said; it was just that…

“We’re in March! Winter is finally over, it’s spring outside!” He smiled brightly as he leaned back in his chair, tilting it enough so he could see out the window and watch as the sunlight reflected on the fertile meadow. It was so pretty… They were only in the first few days of March and he already wanted nothing more than to rummage and roll around in the hills.

“It’s simply something I am more comfortable in.” Prussia brushed off his comments before gripping the back of his chair and forcing it forwards, back onto all fours. He smirked as America hastily grasped at the table for better balance. “So, have you heard the news?”

“News?” America raised an eyebrow.

“Washington finally got around to making inoculation mandatory a couple of weeks ago.” He put on a mocking high-pitched voice. “We’re in March!” He laughed to himself as he walked around the table to be complete in America’s view. “It took him long enough to fulfill his promise to you, don’t you think?’

America crossed his arms, but he couldn’t help but smirk at him. “He’s been working on it.”

“Working on it, huh?” Prussia scoffed before stretching his back. “Maybe I should be teaching your general how to be efficient as well. Maybe then he’ll work things out for you a little faster.”

“Oh, come on now.” America laughed. “You know that vareeoh… umm… varhoh –”

“Variolation?”

“Yeah!” America snapped his fingers. “Yeah, that! You know that Congress has been battling with him over variolation for a while now. It’s been illegal for a long time, you know! A lot of people have been saying it’s far too dangerous to decriminalize and a lot of men in Congress agree. I mean, see…” He pressed his hands over the papers. “All he could do was recommend the procedure to a few men, and only then could they volunteer themselves to us. That’s why this list exists. The list of all these men we have saved together, due to him bending the rules for us… See? Here is my proof that he’s at least been doing something.”

Prussia’s smirk softened until it appeared to be more genuine. He glanced over the papers. “Ja,” he nodded. “He has been doing _something_ … That’s far more than most, I’ll give him that.”

“He’s passionate about it. He caught the disease when he was younger. It scared him.”

“And so it should. Smallpox is nothing but wanton filth. It rips families to shreds.” Prussia frowned as he looked up at America. “Although, there is a reason why so many argue against this cure. You must be aware of the risks by now.”

“I know.” America turned his head away.

“It _is_ a dangerous thing to do. We are deliberately infecting a person with a deadly sickness. The king of England’s son was in pure agony before he died when it had been applied improperly.”

“ _Improperly_ ,” America repeated with gritted teeth. He hoped Prussia hadn’t picked up on his wincing. His soul shrivelled at the very thought of royalty. “And we both know this is saving so many more lives than it has been taking. I see no reason to fear it.”

Prussia sighed knowingly. “Even the greatest of doctors can still make mistakes, America.”

“So why must you continue to monitor me, then? If you are right, then no matter how much of an expert I become, I will never seize making mistakes. If you’ve set the bar for me any higher than that, then I’ll never be able to practice this on my own.”

Prussia laughed. “Ah, you have spoken my lecture for me.”

America narrowed his eyes. Was he…

“You’re free to go. You’ve perfected the art. I’m very impressed.” Prussia put his hands on his hips. For a second he looked like a proud father. It made America smile. “You are right, this practice does save more lives than it takes. That is why we do it. You have my permission to inoculate others while unattended. But I just need you to be aware… when or if things ever do happen to go wrong… I don’t want you blaming yourself. Blame helps nobody.”

America threaded his fingers together as he bit his lip and stared at the ground. Suddenly he felt all sweaty and nervous.

“Hey,” Prussia got his attention back quickly, and watched him with those kind red unearthly eyes. “Some things can only be left to God.”

America took a few deep breaths before he relaxed again. He gave a sobered nod. “I understand.”

Prussia’s smile turned sweet. “ _Sehr gut._ You’re a very good learner. Give it a few more months and I’m sure you’ll be able to emulate all of my other awesome abilities!”

America laughed before he smiled cheekily. “Like in combat?” He teased.

“Oh, definitely in combat.”

He couldn’t hold back his gasp. “No! Would you really be content if I ever surpassed you in combat?”

Prussia laughed. “You misunderstand who I am. I’d be overjoyed if you did. It would prove I am the best teacher in the world.”

America couldn’t believe it. This man was far too arrogant to ever allow another to become better at something than him! “You’re kidding!”

“No, I find honor in it! If a rising nation is of no threat to my own charge in power, then why should I care if they find their own way to greatness? It doesn’t thwart the fact that I’m still strong in my own right and awesome at the things I do.” He gave a little bow, and America frowned, deep in thought.

“In fact, I think I’m finding myself rather fond of listening to all these little stories from over here… Who knew your men could pull off such impressive moves while riding into battle? Maybe you already do rival me.”

America stood up and looked out the window again. He knew what he was referring to. Nobody could ever shut up about it. While it made him proud, and filled him with hope… he still felt so useless for not being able to fight with his men. “I wish I could have seen Trenton.”

“Oh, I wish so too.” Prussia leaned over the desk and sighed like a teenage girl dreaming of her future love. “Maybe if I had arrived earlier, with Woedtke, I could have trained you enough so we would have been there. We could have seen it together…”

America smiled, digging into one of the many pockets of his outfit. He pulled out a small yellow card, and showed it to him. “Colonel Knox drew a sketch of it for me. You can see all his artillery stuff in the background.”

Prussia took the picture and hummed affirmatively. “To see Fritz’s face when he hears about this. Crossing the Delaware like that… I guarantee he will be impressed.” He smiled as he looked up at the ceiling, and for a second it seemed like he was longing for something.

America could have sworn he had whispered “so will he” under his breath.

.

.

Washington’s new aide-de-camp was a stubborn man. He had fiery eyes, a sharp wit, and the amount of little white lies he could drown himself in was impressive. He was a courageous man who fought at bravely Princeton, yet another battle America was frustrated to have missed.

He was willing enough to fill America in whenever he asked about the events he could feel but never see, letting him know exactly how things went down. It was during one of his many rambles of comparing days after days of combat that America learned he’d played his part at Trenton as well. He spoke with flowery language, although he was often direct and blunt whenever he hurled insults at the enemy. America could see how his stories often revolved around his work with cannons…

It was a shame they didn’t really get along too well outside of those discussions, though.

Washington liked to call his core staff his ‘military family’. He knew it would make America happy, whenever they would sit down and discuss things while at general meetings. He knew it would make the boy feel more at home. It was something the child craved, constantly moving, constantly at war. America needed some source of stability. He was desperate to find some place – or a group of people – to call his own home.

But Hamilton despised all of the General’s pet names. He hated them, thought they were unprofessional, and invasive. Every time he spoke to America, he would bring them up just to complain. It dampened America’s mood. Which was why, whenever he’d take a break from Prussia’s lessons on battle tactics and went strolling through the encampment, if he ever saw that man approach him, he would always slowly back off, turn around and speed walk away. Sometimes he’d even run from him.

As he was doing now, turning the corner and lunging himself into the nearest tent he could see to hide until Mr Complainer passed on by.

Three young men were sitting inside. Two of them were looking up and staring straight at him, rather confused as to why he was there at the opening of their tent. Meanwhile, the third one didn’t dare take his eyes off his current task at hand.

“Good God, Benji.” He looked disgusted as he combed his fingers through his tentmate’s thick curly brown hair. “You have lice crawling all over your head!”

“Yeah,” Benji chuckled lightly, although he didn’t break eye contact with America as the latter held a finger to his lips, hushing him. “They’re my friends,” he continued on absentmindedly.

The young man – who, despite his tired, sombre face, looked like he still could be identified as a boy – seemed to go mad over that, shouting at Benji to get a grip and let him pluck them out or he’d force him and his ‘friends’ to sleep outside. He still hadn’t noticed America.

“Calm down, Courtier. Someone else is here.” The third man said, turning his head to glare at the other two before looking back at America. The shape of his nose made him look like an eagle. He seemed precisely like the type of man who’d refuse hosting a stranger. “Who are you?”

“Excuse me?” Benji interrupted. “Did you just call him Courtier?”

“I’m not going to calm down! He has lice in his hair!”

“I really thought we were close enough friends to refer to each other by our Christian names by now, Phillip. I really did.”

“You will not disrespect me like that when I am the only one here trying to keep everything clean! It is _filthy_ in here! I’m sick of having to mother you soldiers...”

“There’s a man chasing me from outside,” America said as he invited himself to sit down next to Phillip, and their buzz of chatter ceased. He took the blanket from his bed and wrapped it around himself. “I just need to seek some refuge here for a bit.”

Phillip’s stern anger morphed into concern as he was about to say something, just before a new form cast its shadow over the tent. America tensed up, clutching at the blanket until he heard the voice. It wasn’t the voice of his fellow ‘family’ member.

“I am looking for a Phillip Johnson.” The man in uniform refused to step in the tent. Instead, his presence demanded Phillip stand up for him instead. “He has been caught disregarding the –”

America couldn’t help but laugh from shock as a chorus of angry groans sounded throughout the tent.

“You’ve got the wrong one again,” the youngest one deadpanned as he stood.

“Wrong Phillip Johnson,” Benji shouted as he waved his hand and motioned for him to go away. “Wrong Phillip Johnson.”

“The one you are after is further up. Pass three tents then turn to the left.” Phillip said it as if it had been rehearsed a million times over.

The man narrowed his eyes, evidently perplexed and deeply surprised. He eyed America suspiciously, who simply shrugged, giggling at him in return. A few unsettling moments passed until he left without a word. And that was that.

Phillip shook his head as he muttered, “every damn time.”

“There are two of you?” America asked, smiling cheerfully curious, and strangely mystified.

“Not literally.” Phillip shook his head again. “We are simply two men with the exact same name and clearly very different sets of morals…”

“I want to know the sort of Devilish things that man must be up to, to warrant so many warnings from the authorities. Clearly your ‘twin’ has a thing for breaking the rules.” Benji teased.

The youngest one chuckled for a bit until his eyes finally fell on America. Then he narrowed them, and put his hands on his hips. “Hang on, why are you in our tent?”

“Weren’t you listening, James?” Benji mocked his posture. “He said he was hiding from someone. We’re housing him.”

“Oh, I… I didn’t hear that. I don’t think it really registered with me that you were here… sorry.”

America laughed loudly until sudden flashes and thoughts of his brother crossed his mind. He’d never been overlooked in a room like that before… That was always his twin’s thing. He closed his eyes, trying to keep the tears inside…

He missed him.

“Christ,” Benji laughed along with him, “with a reaction time like that, it’s no wonder you’re not a soldier like the rest of us.”

James threw a container at his head.

“Do you think the man will leave you alone now?” Phillip asked suddenly, and America tilted his head to the side. He was shocked to find this man the most hospitable, and so kind.

“Yeah, probably.” He nodded as he tried his best to pull himself together.

Benji gasped all of a sudden, as if something revolutionary had only just dawned on him. “Oh! Wait a minute! Are _you_ the other Philip Johnson? Are you on the run for doing something bad?”

America shook his head, smiling lightly. “No, it’s nothing like that. I’m just avoiding…” He wondered how one should describe Alexander Hamilton… “an overbearing gossiper.”

“Oh, now that makes you sound like a teenage girl!”

“No,” Phillip was quick to defend him. “I understand that. I can see myself doing that, too.” He rolled his eyes. “Some men are ridiculous with their quarrels.”

It felt heart-warming, to hear such reassuring words from one of his own people. He stood, looking out of the tent before turning back around. The coast seemed clear enough outside. “You know, I think I’ll be able to leave now.”

“Oh, well wait a minute, before you go!” James cried out. “Don’t leave us yet, you haven’t even told us your name!”

“Let me guess it! Let me guess…” Benji chuckled. “So if you’re not a Phillip Johnson… then maybe you’re a Phillip Jones!” He nodded to himself, self-assured after watching America’s stunned reaction. “Yes! You look more like a ‘Jones’ than a ‘Johnson’ kind of person.”

He turned to Phillip with an affectionate smile on his face. “Did’ya know we’ve got a Phillip Jones a few tents down the other way?” He pointed in the opposite direction of the man that left. “I only discovered that yesterday, while conversing with all those nice artillerymen down near the fireplace. But huzza! Another Phillip to add to the list. You lot keep multiplying, don’t you? One day you’ll take over the whole world.”

America cackled, shaking his head as he grinned at his men. “No, I regret to inform you I am not a Phillip…” He couldn’t stop himself from taking his chances and winking at them. “But I am a Jones.”

“Are you?” Both James and Phillip were clearly shocked.

“Woah, was I finally able to guess something right?”

America prepared himself to leave the tent, feeling a strange sort of elation in his chest. He’d never felt such a thing before. Something about it… it was embellished with confidence. Embroidered with pride. He hadn’t felt so much hope in years.

He glanced back at his young men before stepping out. “My name is Alfred Jones,” he smiled as he said it, resting a hand on the main wooden pole that held up the entrance. “And I must thank you folks for your hospitality here. You’ve saved me from quite a bit of anguish.”

.

.

The more time Alfred spent with his men, the more happy he became. The more satisfied he felt with his position here, fighting diseases with knives and prys rather than battles with guns and sticks.

He would hear battle stories from some of them, others would tell stories of back at home, speaking of their missus or their children, or maybe even their beloved animals. The mood of the encampments he crossed over was elated. People were hopeful, happy, willing to share funny stories by the fire.

The Colonials had won their big victory, and their small victories too. A jovial disposition was shared amongst most men he would talk to, matching the breakout of spring flowers in the distance and the dawn of bright sunlight overhead. The frosty cold was almost completely gone; it truly felt like the birth of something new.

America had been working constantly with Prussia and all the other physicians around, inoculating the entire camp, one third at a time. Sometimes a young man would cry for his mother as his flesh would be cut, other men would bond with each other as they held each other’s hands. Some men were scared of the procedure, while others couldn’t care less and didn’t even look him in the eye.

Occasionally, he would inoculate the wives of the soldiers, women brave enough to visit these places often, and play their parts in the revolutionary cause.

They would always be kind to him. They would always give him gifts. A fresh pair of boots. A blue embroidered scarf. A loving smile. An offering of freshly cooked food. Alfred had to admit, that last one was always his favorite.

He bit into his bread after he’d dipped it in his stew, waiting for the next group of men to arrive, and for his work to start again.

“God, you always know exactly how to annoy me.” A familiar trio of voices made its way across the outside of Alfred’s large medical tent, and he perked up at the sound. When the new set of half a dozen men walked in a moment later, he recognised those three young men immediately.

“Oh! Good day to you, Alfred Jones!”

“Good day to you as well,” America bowed his head a little. He hadn’t expected to see these men again, but fate had a funny way of always giving him exactly the opposite of what he’d anticipate. He chuckled to himself as he picked up the board he was using to level his document papers. “So all of you are from the same area?”

“Yes,” one of the men responded.

“Alright then.” He dipped his quill pen in some ink, and looked up, ready to write down their names. “We’ll go alphabetical, Christian name first.”

The men looked at each other for a moment until James pushed Benji forward.

“Oh!” He removed his hat, the standard salutation, before smiling jovially. “Umm, Benjamin Downer. That’s me!”

Alfred recorded all their names in order before he invited Benji to rest on one of the beds. He sat beside him, picked up his tools, lifted the young man’s sleeve, brushed his arm, then held the tip of the knife to his skin.

“Ouch!” Benji winced before chuckling lightly.

“You ready?” Alfred asked, and when Benji nodded, he pressed the knife, pushed, and produced a thin red line that stretched across his arm. “There we go. You did great.” They shared a smile before Alfred turned away to glance at the rest of the men in the room, his audience.

“You’re allowed to rest here for a bit before returning to your quarters,” he said as he wiped the knife clean and put it on the table. “Then you’ll be allocated some time off for your recovery. Your greatest duty will be to retire for the next few weeks... and _stay_ in your tents.”

Benji narrowed his eyes, sitting up on the bed suddenly. “Why?” He asked, concerned as he rubbed his lower arm.

“Because you are soon to be taken ill.” Phillip responded patiently.

“How come?” He gestured to the slight cut on his arm, pouting. “I was told this was to prevent us from falling to any illness.” He shook his head, confused. “I… A few weeks is a long time… Why… Who invented this thing? How does it even work?”

“It’s from the religious minister, Cotton Mather.” Said one of the men from the back. He sounded bored and uninterested, as if he were begging for things to speed up. “He advocated for widespread inoculation in this manner during the early years of this good century.”

“So this method of protection is from a man of God?”

The same man shrugged. “He seemed convinced enough in the legitimacy of this method. Although, apparently, he learned it from one of his slaves. I’ve heard it stems from an African superstition. They believe that if the body has been exposed to the… _discharge_ of another’s infection, then it will be less likely for that body to contract the same sickness as the earlier infected.”

Benji blinked before gazing at Alfred, unsure. As if he were a lost child in need of direction. “Do we really know if this works or not?”

“Apparently, it does.” The man was tapping his foot now, and he spoke gruffly. It was clear he wanted to be someplace else, but he was given no other choice but to stay. “ _Somehow_ it works. Otherwise, the Commander in Chief wouldn’t be making it mandatory for everyone in the army.”

James rubbed Benji’s shoulder. “You will find that probably because you have been fed so little of the illness, it will not harm you as much. Maybe it is like our bodies get to taste a small experience of being sick. So later on, when the air turns bad again, the body knows how to… expel it before it hurts us. Like exorcizing a demon.”

Benji nodded, slowly coming to some sort of understanding. Slowly, the fear drained from his face, and eventually he stuck his tongue out. “Or maybe like banishing a ghost!”

“Ahh!” Alfred cried out before laughing along giddily. He gave his body a little shake for comedic effect. “I can’t stand the thought of ghosts!”

He prepared his knife for the next man’s incision, telling him to rest on the furthermost bed he could possibly assign him. He grimaced as he fixed his posture to rub his sore shoulders. For the past few weeks, the pain had been unpredictably fluctuating in intensity. But never before had these aches forced such a taxing feeling unto him. He gritted his teeth as he sat down on the stool he’d grabbed and carried to the side of the bed. He wondered if it hurt more than inoculation.

The man brushed his heavy blond hair out of his face, exposing an expression of great annoyance. “I can’t believe we have to do this because of some asinine African impression on illness immunity.”

America raised an eyebrow before slicing the virus into his skin. He didn’t hide his sinful smile after hearing the man yelp from under his hold. “Oh, I think they must have been really intelligent to have observed such a thing,” he said as he put the knife down.

His fellow blondie stared at him as if he were a wild animal who’d just attacked him. It fell silent until Phillip coughed uncomfortably. So it seemed the others were all listening in as well.

“Intelligence, huh?” Benji’s humored voice cut through the twisted ice in the room. “I wonder if the Tories have enough intelligence to just give up on being the fun police already and become a part of our party instead.”

That earned a few laughs, and Alfred used the mood shift to direct his attention to the next man, leading him to yet another unoccupied bed, again far away from where Benji sat on his. He was immunized with nimble speed, letting out only a small hiss hidden by the happy chatter within the tent’s fabric walls.

“Well, I think it would do them good. Have you read Adam Smith’s new book?” James spoke up only after the sounds of laughter died down. “The one that was published two years ago, ‘The Wealth of Nations’, it’s called.”

“I’ve never even heard of this Mr Smith, so I doubt I’ve ever read his book.” Alfred snickered, and a few of the young men agreed, one even shouting ‘here, here’ at him. It made him laugh again as he gestured for his next patient to follow him. After guiding him to the last remaining bed that was distant, he prepared for the procedure yet again. A routine that had long since made itself a force of habit.

He pushed the knife in as James continued talking. “Well, you should. He’s made the claim that Britain would actually benefit more from an independent America than as it has been in the past. Self-governing states have more freedom to establish independent production. Typically this production is far more suited to their needs and culture, rather than the demands of a separate, foreign ruling body. Therefore, the incentive to produce more may finally be addressed, and production increases. So later on, through increased maritime trade and friendly relations, the mother country should find her reach for resources not detract after losing her colonies but rather expand – she’s allowed her offspring to run away and flourish, and in turn they shall gift her with the abundance that flows from their freedom.”

America froze, yet the urgent rush of thoughts wouldn’t stop shifting throughout his mind. Benji made a joke, but he didn’t hear it. He couldn’t. Not with the uproar of voices aplenty shouting right in his ears. Not with the hopeful flutters that were so dangerously blooming right in his chest. Not when he’d just heard a new revelation, right in front of him.

Was England aware of this book? Could they… Was it possible for them to make things work if they talked it through? If they came up with some deal, a way for them to both help each other out and live in peace together… Together forever, just as they always said! They could have that… They could thrive by each other’s sides if they managed to fix things! If only they talked it through…

… It wasn’t too late to try and fix things, was it?

“Ah!” The man cried out from under the blade. Alfred had dug too deep. He pulled the knife away suddenly, apologising quickly as he tried his best to clean up the mess, and he prayed to God it wasn’t fatal. He looked around quietly; nobody else seemed to notice his mistake. He finished then stood up in a hurry, trying to calm his shaking hands.

“Now, if you can summarise a book like that for us, then why do I need to read it?” Benji asked as he rubbed his arm, just below the cut. “Not that it would make a difference for me, I can’t read anyway.”

“Oh, you’re one of those?” James smirked before Benji took his shoe off and threw it at him. “Alright, alright!” He cowered behind his outstretched arms. “I’m sorry!”

“Hope that breaks your Goddamned button nose!”

“I said I was sorry… You know, I could teach you to read if you like.”

Alfred had made his way back to the three young men he’d known from earlier. He sat down next to them, grateful for the fact he had enough foresight to separate these two groups in the first place. With hushed voices, their conversations could be kept completely private. And privacy was what he needed right now.

His mind was still racing. His heart was still palpitating. The man he had wronged… Was it... It didn’t… It wasn’t that bad of a cut, was it? It didn’t seem that bad… Surely he wouldn’t die from that. Would he? No, no no no. He couldn’t… He couldn’t do that to him! Otherwise his ghost would haunt him forever…

No. No, that would not happen. That would never happen. He wouldn’t die. America was confident enough in his abilities. He had been taught by Prussia well. He was certain a cut like that couldn’t kill. It wasn’t anywhere near as bad as he was making it out to be… It shouldn’t be lethal. It shouldn’t.

He shook his head, trying to distract himself from brooding so much. He put all his focus into the task at hand instead. Greeting those in front of him. Inoculating James safely, with a steadfast determination to not repeat the same mistake.

When he finished, he looked around the tent, begging for his inquisitive nature to overtake the anxieties in his mind, and to find something new to think about. He watched his men as they rested on their beds. He wondered who they were, who they dreamed of becoming. What their stories were.

Benji mentioned he couldn’t read… That would make sense. Out of everyone before him, he was undeniably the most tanned. It was a sign of hard work and labor. Constant days out in the fields. James, on the other hand, was the palest man under the tent. The son of reclusive city dwellers, maybe. That, or he was the most wealthy, which seemed to be the assumption with the most grounding. Meanwhile, Alfred couldn’t help but notice that Phillip’s face was absolutely littered with hundreds of freckles. They even made their way down to his big burly arms!

He grinned as he leaned in, asking in a not-so-hushed voice. “So, why’d you join the cause?” He couldn’t contain his curiosity a moment longer. He wanted to know why his boys enlisted.

James raised an eyebrow, and he shrugged nonchalantly. Although, his response was far more quiet than Alfred’s question. “I simply wanted a greater purpose in life. I’ve never had a solid routine, no reason to get up and work every day. In the army, I’ve been offered structure. A reason to move. An adventure, I suppose.” He shrugged again. “That is something I shall be eternally grateful for, even though I’d agree war is… not the greatest of humanity’s creations.”

Alfred nodded, rolling his shoulders. Ahhg, it still hurt! He rubbed his back a bit, although it didn’t do much to alleviate the pain. He turned to face Benji in an effort to move on from it.

“How about you?”

“For the money,” He responded instantly.

Alfred furrowed his brow in confusion. “Money?”

Benji laughed bitterly. “Yes, the money we’ve been promised after the war’s end. I need to pay off my father’s gambling debts somehow…”

Phillip scoffed in disgust. “I’ve told you this before –”

“Yes, I know, that it –”

“sounds like a covert form of bonded labor,” they said in unison. But then Phillip shook his head. “I still cannot fathom how you have forgiven him.”

Benji shrugged. “Is it not the Christian thing to do? Besides, this isn’t so bad… I’ve been able to meet new people, at least.” He beamed as he glanced over at James, and the young man smiled back.

Inoculating Phillip was the easiest. He had patiently watched and observed every other man get his fair slice of the virus, and he had seen how America had prepared them. He worked hard to be as accommodating as possible, lifting his sleeve, and brushing off the dirt before they had even begun.

“And how about you, Phillip.” Alfred said, sitting beside him on the last available bed, ready with his knife in hand for the last incision of the day. “Why did you join?”

“Because this is a cause I believe in. Both me and my father, we have a strong conviction for this cause.”

“Really, is that so?”

“Yes, we are family farmers.”

Alfred nodded. Ah, so they were yeomen. He smiled fondly; he should have guessed.

“We eat the things we grow. We manage ourselves well. We cause no fuss and we live off our own labor. Tell me, why must we have a king for that? Could we not live freely with each other on the idea that we are all bound by a spirit of common brotherhood, and that alone? Can we not control ourselves on our own, or are we animals in need of being tamed? I say, if the nations of antiquity could uphold the values of republicanism, then I see no reason why we cannot try it as well.”

“Here, here,” Alfred whispered softly, feeling the cheers and calls of his people from deep within his soul. Although, as he looked up at Phillip’s pained expression, he realised something else was there, hidden from the eyes of the average man and his detection. But America was far from any average man.

“Umm,” he began, “are… you all right?”

“Yes,” the poor man said far too quickly for his words to hold the weight of any truth. “Yes, I’m all right.” He feigned a smile, and Alfred could feel the dread coming along. “Only, my uncle… and my aunt. They have chosen to disagree with us. It has caused… a rift in the family. That is the mildest manner in which I may word it…”

Alfred pulled his hand away, finishing the last moments of the procedure in silence. He leaned back, a familiar, saddened pang sunk into his heart. He looked away, sighed, then looked right back into Phillip’s eyes. “I feel your passion. We share the same motives, our reason for being here… and I understand the pain of diverging views all too well.”

Phillip’s eyes glistened, and he averted his gaze. “Sometimes I fear things will never heal between us… But only time will tell.” He said with a tired shrug, “I shall leave that up to fate.”

America hummed in agreement, feeling the weight of a heavy burden on his already pained back. A lot was riding on this war. His men’s sense of purpose, their wealth, their innermost values. Family bonds have been shattered; loyalties split apart. Many have already lost their lives. He wondered how long this conflict would last… and if it would all be worth it, in the end.

It was then, when he felt a massive spike of pain shoot up his spine. He groaned, and leaned forward, his hand awkwardly rubbing his lower back.

“Are you all right?” James asked.

“Yes,” he cried as he shut his eyes. “It’s just some back pain.”

When he opened his eyes, he was met with three very concerned faces. All of them looked as if they wanted to help, but they didn’t know how. It made Alfred laugh.

“You know, the pain always seems to spark up around the same time a battle takes place. It’s like I am there as well, feeling everything that our men are.”

“Hah!” Benji joked, “it’s almost like you’re spiritually connected with America, somehow.”

Alfred huffed, amused. These men had no idea. “Yeah, now wouldn’t that be funny.”

He massaged his back a bit more, before finally giving up and shrugging it off. It wasn’t as bad as before, and that gave him hope.

“Oh! You should have seen me two years ago, it was awful!” He almost giggled, rocking from side to side as he overdramatized his story. “There was constant pain… I’m frightened of ever being stuck in that same position again. If I were to ever go through that again, I’d fear I’d be unable to move without a walking stick!”

Benji laughed, although James looked seriously concerned. “That doesn’t sound like something I would ever be able to laugh about, that scares me.”

Phillip tilted his head to the side, lost deep in thought. “I wonder how we could help you…”

As time passed, and the sun moved in the sky, the four young men said their farewells to the other three, who had returned to their tents before the full effects of variolation could show itself. For a while they continued to chatter, gossip about nothing, joke about everything. The buzz of conversation worked long into the afternoon. Their shared stories of hard work and uneasy endeavors reminded Alfred so much of little assiduous critters. Maybe even a group of bees.

Although, these men had an added element to them, didn’t they? They were less fragile than bees, who in the past Alfred had seen so easily maimed by the flames of life. Little Deborah had lost her life so fast, and Missy; she watched her livelihood go up in a blaze. Yes, the tragedy was you were much more prone to losing all you ever had, living your life as a bee in this world.

But these men were warriors. Fighters who may one day shed blood, who may already have. They were more like wasps, he reasoned to himself. They could still lose their lives in battle, yes, that was true, but one could never deny the significance of their strength nor the power of their ability to strike fear in the heart of the enemy, far more than the humble bee ever could.

These men were in the army, and with solid reasons too. They trained with effort, and they held their guns with rigor and their newfound immunity against disease with pride. These men had the strength, the footing, the grounding, the _ability_ to fight for America’s cause.

But not only that, but as they spoke and laughed with him… Alfred felt at home with them.

For he loved his people. He adored them all. He felt more and more proud of them for every passing second he would spend with them, for enduring such conditions by his side and for fighting with such optimism for the sake of his and their own freedom. He felt their courage, and their confidence. Their hopes, their fears and their love for their families, their communities, and this beautiful land on which they lived and breathed.

He fell silent as he watched them, a new idea dawning on him. An instinct. A reason to carry on with all he had pledged himself to. If this war was only just to ensure the rights of these three young men here before him… then Alfred would still fight it for them. He would. He smiled bittersweetly as he thought of how he would.

It made him wonder… was this how other nations always felt about their people? Had other nations ever gone through the same phenomena as he?

Was he feeling the same emotions that England would experience during his many, many other times at war…

Oh God, was he feeling the same things that England would be right now?

A silent tear rolled down his cheek before he swiped it away and stood up, breaking away from the conversation to clean up his tools and close for the end of the day. He picked up his papers and allowed the men to dismiss themselves whenever they liked after he left, heading down the encampment to chase after Prussia and report on all of his new progress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -By now, the battles of Trenton [26 December 1776] and Princeton [3 January 1777] have turned the tide of war to be in US favor. Morale was boosted, and more men joined up for service, being flowered with speeches of patriotism and promises of cold hard cash.  
> -'Mr Konx' who drew the picture is Henry Knox! During Trenton, he was in charge logistics and managing artillery.  
> -Inoculation is basically just an old term for immunization. Variolation is a type of inoculation, where powdered smallpox scabs or fluid from pustules from mild cases were inserted/cut into the patient’s skin – typically their forearm. This method was first advocated for in the Bostonian medical world by Cotton Mather in the 1720s after his slave explained to him how back in Africa he’d been successfully immunized as a child. The name of this amazing man name was Onesimus, [ I really encourage you to read more about him!](https://www.historyofvaccines.org/content/blog/onesimus-smallpox-boston-cotton-mather)  
> -However, many people feared the vaccine, citing lack of safety as their number one concern [lmao things never change, huh?]. In many of the colonies, such as Virginia, it was even deemed illegal. Continental Congress agreed with these laws at first, however after Washington demanded inoculation for ALL SOLDIERS be made mandatory in February 1777 (and the rates of infection began to decrease rapidly as a result), [they changed their minds and later legalized the procedure.](https://www.realclearscience.com/blog/2016/09/how_vaccination_helped_win_the_revolutionary_war.html) So in other words, Washington just broke the law, then pressured Congress to legalize what he had done. Lmao, that’s kinda funny.  
> -But Prussia’s right. Early modern medicine was risky. [“King George’s son died in agony”](https://www.nationalgeographic.com/history/2020/04/george-washington-beat-smallpox-epidemic-with-controversial-inoculations/) after he was given a ‘botched operation’ using this practice. Because of widespread fears of this happening to his men, Washington was forced to ban inoculation in the army in 1776, despite believing wholeheartedly in the procedure. Surviving an entire month of having smallpox as a teenager had shaken him, as only one in two people who got sick in Barbados [where he was visiting at the time] survived. He needed an excuse to make the ‘vaccine’ compulsory. Which he got in Quebec by mid-year ‘76.  
> -A predicted 1/3 to 1/2 of American soldiers who served during the 1775-76 Invasion of Quebec died from smallpox, contributing to their rapid disorganization on the field, and later, their defeat. John Adams, after hearing of this, wrote “the smallpox is ten times more terrible than Britons, Canadians, and Indians together.”  
> -Not only that, but soldiers and their followers were [ coming in from tiny villages spread out across all across the Thirteen Colonies.](https://www.mountvernon.org/library/digitalhistory/digital-encyclopedia/article/smallpox/) Thousands of foreign people all squished into a small handful of wartime encampments; it was a breeding ground for disease! More people were dying from smallpox than the battles themselves. So, people were starting to see it as a billion times more frightening than combat, and they hated it far more than the redcoats.  
> -Thus, while inoculation may have been deadly for some, it was a risk Washington was willing to take, and by '77, thousands of troops were getting immunized.  
> \- [The army was divided into threes and each third was inoculated at different times.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CuJJkdQQipk&feature=emb_title&ab_channel=FRONTLINEPBS%7COfficial) The Colonists were aware they were playing a risky game, as if the British attacked, one third of their entire army would still be ‘out of order’ from mild virus recovery. Also, they had to do it in secret, cracking down on spies to make sure the British couldn’t know that their forces had been temporarily weakened. In the end, they did really well! They succeeded in keeping it ‘under the rug’, and by the end of 1777, a whopping 40,000 men were inoculated!  
> -Also, on another note, I’ve introduced James Benji and Phil to try and show the human element of war. They’re three young men, joining the cause for the big three reasons young men have historically always joined; adventure and purpose, money and debt, and tribal/family honor and belief. I hope you like their characters :)  
> -Adam Smith’s views on US-Anglo relations were shared with Ben Franklin, just an interesting fun fact  
> -Oh, and Hamilton had a reputation for never shutting up, so I had some fun there (don’t worry, Al still loves him, he’s just annoying)  
> -And James isn’t a soldier. He’s a camp follower. That’s why he’s slightly younger, but he’s not a child :)


End file.
